


The Colonel & the Margravine of Örtö

by countessofbiscuit



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe - Regency, British Military, Chivalry, Escapism, F/M, Historical References, Inspired by Real Events, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Language, Period-Typical Racism, Politics, Regency Romance, austenesque, totally tropey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: The Colonel & the Margravine of Örtö. — or, Virtue Rewarded, by the Prudence of a Young Noblewoman and the Gallantry of a Natural Son during the late Wars of Russian Aggression in the Baltic.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & CC-4477 | Thire, Padmé Amidala & CC-1010 Fox, Riyo Chuchi/CC-1010 | Fox
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiend/gifts).



>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
> 
> Colonel Cornwallis Fox . . . . . . . . . . Regimental Colonel, 2nd Regiment Life Guards
> 
> Rigmár Tchuchinskaya, the Margravine of Örtö . . . . . . . . . . Cousin of the King of Sweden 
> 
> Lieutenant Frederick Thire . . . . . . . . . . Staff Officer to Colonel Fox
> 
> Captain Jere Iggson . . . . . . . . . . Equerry to the Margravine of Örtö 
> 
> Lady Onya Chokova . . . . . . . . . . Lady-in-Waiting to the Margravine of Örtö
> 
> Padmé Amidala, Madame de Naberrie . . . . . . . . . . Wealthy Socialite of Genevan Origin
> 
> General Edmund Piel, K.B. . . . . . . . . . . Commanding Officer of the Swedish Expedition
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> Admiral Barton Coburn . . . . . . . . . . Of HMS _Justice,_ Commander of Baltic Fleet
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> Matthew Mawys, 6th Baron Amedda . . . . . . . . . . Foreign Secretary
> 
> Sir Simon Moore . . . . . . . . . . Secretary of State for War and the Colonies
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> Seth Palpatine, 1st Marquess Palpatine . . . . . . . . . . President of the Board of Control
> 
> Henry Gilroy . . . . . . . . . . British Minister-Plenipotentiary to Sweden
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> Admiral Thierry Talzarov . . . . . . . . . . Of _Plutoniya,_ Commander of the Russian Force Occupying Örtö

_Portman Square_  
_Wednesday_  
_4 May, 1808_

_My dear Lord,_

_Most extraordinary news has reached me from a correspondent of mine, the Markgravine Rigmár of Örtö. She writes that the Russians have begun their occupation of Swedish territory, — beginning, as we know, with Finland, but also with her own island. Little fear has she for herself from the Russian force (tho’ the Admiral at their head makes assiduous overtures of peace in the form of his hand); but being ill-equipped to repulse their advance, having only a standing company on all the little land, she has had to suffer them to arrive and occupy her fortress of Wisby; furthermore, she has reason to expect His Swedish Majesty (her eccentric cousin) will view her compassionate capitulation as treason and rebuke it in the harshest terms. As you may imagine, the example of Svartholm weighs heavy in her mind. _

_I wonder if some means of relieving the Markgravine Rigmár from her present impossible position might privately be put to the Cabinet? She understands a British auxiliary force is in the offing for Gottenburg; expresses herself most ready to meet any inconvenience and danger which must attend such a proposition; is full familiar with the interior of her own island; would not stand upon any ceremony, &c. &c. She claims her most faithful equerry has already been despatched to the mainland with the greater part of her household, with instructions to rendezvous with Mr Gilroy, whom she had the pleasure of entertaining when he was the Hanseatic Minister._

_The succour of the Markgravine, should indeed it be contemplated, is naturally a cutting-out for which our dear General S. would be well suited, — but in his continued absence, I pray some alternative officer might be considered, one who possesses a noble heart, adamantine will, and inviolable discretion._

_Her letter will be forwarded you once I have done copying it out, that you might judge all the little minutiae of her circumstances, which are most severe. My footmaiden will await your reply, — you know the hours I keep._

_Adieu, adieu.  
Padmé, M. Naberrie_

_n.b. — It may be remembered that the Markgravine is a grandniece of Her Majesty, and is oft spoken of in Paris and Stockholm as intended for Marshal Papanoidón._

  
  
Colonel Cornwallis Fox was a straightforward man, but his circumstances, as related to more than just his parentage, were mixed at best. 

He had a name that promised connexions and interest (but no credit) wherever he went; he had a figure over which artists and ladies privately sighed themselves into swooning fits; and he had a place on the Army List that stood him in a fair way of being made full general this side of forty. To these general advantages, which made him the envy of many, followed a train of liabilities, misfortunes, and financial vexations, which circumscribed much of his own happiness and the possibility of increasing it by the usual means: marriage, occupation, or the death of a rich relation. But this all began, as such chronic malaise of fortune often does, with of the peculiar facts of his birth. 

Fox was the only issue of a union that had ended as unhappily as the late American War which had fostered the affection of a nobly-born army captain and a woman native to a tribe of that country. The match might have raised the collective eyebrows of the Fox family — a most thick and hairy judgement — had they known of it; but as the woman had the goodness to die; as the parish records were some thousands of miles out of the sight or knowledge of anybody (if, indeed, they existed at all); and as the captain had promptly redeemed himself by proposing to an English lady who brought some fortune and at least one more vote to the family interest in her father’s rotten borough, the regrettable union might have been passed over without comment, but for Captain Fox’s unaccountable resolve to raise his son as his son — or rather, to have his tractable new wife do so on his behalf. 

The infant was an impediment on _her_ side, to be sure, but not an insuperable one when there was an advantageous match and a pretty northern estate to be secured. Lawyers from both parties soon smoothed over the little wrinkle by a marriage settlement, which declared that any issue of this second union would inherit the majority over the dubious result of the first. The act was done; and all parties congratulated themselves on so politely disinheriting a swaddled child, who, whatever the father remembered of the affair in that lawless country, was most _probably_ illegitimate. 

This illiberality was met with some magnanimity of spirit in Fox’s stepmother, who became his sole protector during the long absences of his military father; her attitude towards him was everything Christianity and society could wish for, but nothing more. She practiced her maternal instincts upon the poor creature with good cheer; and with equal felicity did she finally send him away to school when the house grew full enough with offspring of her own. It was a separation that never mended itself; while the young Fox was never deliberately made to feel unwelcome, the lack of true warmth that met him during his holidays at home, the absence of genuine pleasure in his being there, had something of the same effect; and the boy learned to find solace in his own awkward company, or that of tenant children, who, though early taunting him for a gypsy, fostered that passion for feats of athleticism and endurance which his robust frame naturally favoured; and he determined early upon joining the army, that refuge of the directionless and dispossessed. 

Thinking his eldest son looked very fine upon a horse and feeling _something_ generous was due to him, the elder Fox secured him a cornetcy. Some few years, a series of purchases and one promotion by merit later, Fox found himself gazetted lieutenant-colonel in a regiment of Life Guards — and, on one particular afternoon, riding behind a royal coach, when a decorated officer in the Blues took it upon himself to surprize the party and threaten a gaggle of princesses with destruction, if they did not suffer him to descant on the corruption of Lord Palpatine, of which he claimed undeniable proof. 

Fox’s actions that fine day produced a great alteration in his life. It was not only the resultant minor celebrity in a country that was starved for excitement, bored of blockades and invasion scares, — and which seemed to Fox a distasteful overreaction to his killing a fellow officer gone sadly mad. The transparencies displayed in his honour; the prints sold in the Strand memorialising his heroics and marking his very distinctive image; the carriages stopt in the street, that somebody or other might extend their hand to shake his; the portrait warmly requested for the summer exhibition ( _10\. Portrait of Colonel Fox, with charger, Aratek — J. Hoppner, R.A._ ) and dedicated by the painter to their Royal Highnesses, who condescended to purchase it for some draughty room at Kew — none of this could assuage the strong dissatisfaction with self that set in from that day. 

Throwing himself from his horse to confront the man had been the work of a moment; wrestling the pistol from his hands and shooting him mortally as he fled, the work of another. And while the public rejoiced in the deliverance of their betters, Fox had flung the pistol into the Thames, preferring to see it destroyed than regarded as a relic. Years of exertion and a perfection of everything to which he seriously applied himself had alone supported Fox against that imperfection of his birth which his family and their circle ignored, but which engendered an impertinent scrutiny in society at large. But here, Fox had erred gravely; here, he alarmed himself with his own alacrity, lethal in its effect, when more than a man’s life might have been saved by a wayward shot. And no misplaced praise of his Christian savagery or superabundance of neglected dinner invitations could reconcile this dysphoria of character, which saw Fox think meanly of his own worth and his own instincts, while he was elevated to positions he had done little to truly deserve.

The first of these appointments was aide-de-camp to the King, who did not hesitate to bestow his gratitude by promoting this most able officer and fixing him to his retinue whenever he might be requested. Greater occupation than regimental affairs Fox now had, if making up a card table at Windsor or a languid quadrille at Weymouth might be so called — and greater expenditure, too.

His income had never been good; army pay was laughably insufficient for any life in London, and as his father could only make over a small annual allowance, Fox had long been at pains to triangulate some measure of steady income between Tattersall’s, St James’s and Fives-Court. Though Fox did not carry the habit half so high as his uncle, the wagering instinct sat deep within him; equally fundamental to him was a prudence to keep his mouth and his mind dry, and to bet only against a sound estimation of his own vigorous frame (or that of Corporal Stone), rather than leave everything to chance at cards. The necessity for aiguillettes and finer saddlery and a carousel of coats befitting his appointment, however, only heightened Fox’s embarrassment for money. He was not the first man to find himself called to live in a style he could ill-afford — indeed, that was the great aim of the age: to live fashionably on nothing a year. But as Fox refused to capitalize on a celebrity he disdained, he necessarily involved himself further in those speculative and sporting scenes which had been the ruination of many a relation. 

The coterminous illnesses of his regiment’s fusty colonel and the King’s favourite minister prompted Fox’s further advancement, which crowned the whole of his frustration with life. The dying minister had advised, for the sake of political harmony, the extension of sinecures across the aisle; and the colonel’s death had placed his vacancy out of the way of any sterling or promotion and solely into the hands of one eccentric monarch. Thus did Fox’s measure of personal claim to that monarch’s favour, his indefatigable regularity and attention to duty, and his relation to the new leader of the Commons, see him named, at an extraordinarily young age, regimental colonel for life. 

The honour of a regimental colonel lies in outlaying great expense upon his unit; the privilege of an aide-de-camp lies in having few expenses of any kind. Colonel Fox, a fortuneless man in whom these two respectable offices had been uniquely married, found the honour a somewhat contradictory thing. That the King had presided over the whole rather exacerbated the distress, than soothed it; the outlay must be handsomer for a royal regiment of calvary; the perquisites more assured for a royal aide-de-camp — however immaterial they be in practice. Honest accountants looked upon Fox’s titles, address, and near relations with dismay, and his regimental agents certainly considered him a most hopeless case until such time as deployment might bring an advance in income and change in fortune.

But Fox now had honours enough. When government changed once again, ministers inimical to Fox’s family would not recommend his being sent abroad, to allow him the chance to exercise his merits and gain still more. As a generous, diligent, and unaffected officer, he was well-liked in his own regiment, but to risk making him generally popular through feat of arms, and to perhaps embolden him employ his influence as the interesting Colonel of the 2nd Life Guards, might cost them votes, for he was not inclined to side with them on the war. It was politics that had placed Fox in that coveted position, and it was politics that now dearly wished him out. As this could not be effected by any means other than his death or his resignation from the army, and as the government were largely gentlemen, they were rather at a loss. 

A man in Fox’s situation could not, therefore, be summoned into a carriage at midnight by an abrupt footman from Downing Street without some anxiety. To be in the habit of waiting upon kings and messing with princes was one thing; to wait upon one of His Majesty’s principal ministers was quite another. What desperate interest could government take in a placeholder such as himself? A colonel as apolitical as they came and at the bottom of the brevet list? Fox was rattled through town to a workhouse treadmill of his own thoughts, which at one moment saw him receiving grave news of his father stationed abroad; and in another, fielding unsubtle questions about the King’s health and latest irregularities. 

Three gentlemen awaited him in a small library, only one of whom Fox might have approached in a crowd. Lord Palpatine, a Cabinet minister of long standing and measured manners, spoke first — asked most kindly after his father, sincerely apologised for the lateness of the hour, hoped Fox himself was quite in good health? The other ministers Fox recognised as Sir Simon Moore, a haunt of a man, bald, cadaverous, and pale, who smiled as if he had seen another man do it and wished to try it for himself; and Lord Amedda, a Welshman of no inconsiderable size who wore his hair high in the classical style, most at odds with his broad, craggy features, adding to the impression of a mountain anthropomorphised, and who cut over his colleague’s niceties to ask plainly, “Are you familiar with the Baltic island of Örtö, Colonel?” Colonel Fox confessed that he was not. “It is a moderate limestone wart in that sea, some sixty miles off the coast of Sweden, and a vassalage of that kingdom, long past its prime or use to anybody. And it should continue beneath our notice, except that it is now occupied by two thousand Russians.” 

Fox expressed genuine surprize, which assisted in masking his confusion at the introduction of a topic that was certainly germane to the nation’s current general strategy, but which could have little or nothing to do with him. Wishing to demonstrate some appreciation for geography, but not to betray more intelligence than he ought, or that keenness which was beginning to awaken in his mind, he replied, “They have gotten so far west as that? With Sveaborg still occupied at their rear?”

“Sveaborg is expected daily to fall,” interposed Sir Simon, tonelessly, — “an event which will make Russian possession of Örtö uncomfortable.”

Lord Palpatine politely turned the great terrestrial globe in the room’s centre and directed Fox’s attention to a small spit of land due south of Stockholm in the middle of the sea, explaining, “The martial state of affairs on that island should be the sole concern of the Swedes, but it has one _special_ claim to our interest: its provincial ruler, the Margravine Rigmár. Did you ever hear the tragedy of Duchess Pandora the Wilful?” Fox again claimed honest ignorance. “I thought not,” continued Palpatine. “It is not a story the Queen would tell you or have generally known; but suffice to say, its result was this little Margravine, a great-niece of Her Majesty and, by all accounts, a most admirable young lady. We are informed she is in a wretched state: politely imprisoned by the Russians and their Admiral who means to marry her; and utterly condemned by her cousin, the Swedish King, who believes her sympathetic to the Russian cause. It is understood he intends to arrest her for treason.”

Anticipation swelled in Fox’s breast. The leading questions and the readiness to divulge delicate information all pointed to something approaching a special kind of confidence. Perhaps an attachment to the expedition forming in Yarmouth? A command? Fox would not even contemplate it, lest he frighten it away in excitement. And still he offered little in reply — grave indeed, most unusual, what interesting friends this country kept — rather than give the impression that he supped hungrily upon news. 

“To be sure,” said Lord Amedda, puffing himself up to his full height, which nearly met that of Colonel Fox, — “if we answered the plea of every piece of foreign ermine in this unsettled age, we should be occupied from now until eternity, and this country would be nothing but a panoply of useless silk stockings. However, the Margravine Rigmár is an exceptional case — we do not wish to see another Duc de Bonterri, even if the irony be lost upon his Swedish Majesty.” 

Sir Simon shook his head. “It is a matter of _practicality_ ,” said he, pointedly, as though this trio were still trying to convince themselves of the justification upon which they might act. “Our representative in Stockholm Mr Gilory writes that the commander of the relief force privately hesitates to move against the Russians while the Margravine remains. He wishes to avoid the embarrassment of arresting a noblewoman.”

To save Fox the awkwardness of asking what the other gentlemen would not volunteer, or of feeling compelled to put himself forward, Lord Palpatine apparently took Fox by the arm, saying with paternal affection, “My dear boy, as you must probably already know, ten thousand troops are at present preparing for Gottenburg, with General Piel and Admiral Coburn at their head. General assistance to Sweden is their first aim; but it is now hoped, amongst other outcomes, that the arrest or removal of the Margravine by _any_ power but ourselves may be halted; firstly by such reason and military counsel as those officers might put forward; but, failing that, perhaps inevitably, by some application of that zealous, manly endeavour particular to British officers — especially in such a case where there is a noblewoman confined to a castle, and the officer in view is known to be the equal of Corporal Stone.”

Fox bowed his head, somewhat astonished at the dependence placed upon him — yet, reassured that the flattery had not been laid too thick: he would have hated to be likened to a Romeo. Lord Palpatine’s compliment was artful, perhaps, but in the gratification of his dearest wish this last decade, Fox was not averse to being a little worked upon. He quickly expressed, as he had often done before, his anxiety and readiness to be employed on any active service, whenever it should please his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief to call upon him. “Or,” Fox added after a pause, with due consideration for his present audience, “if it be the particular wish of His Majesty’s Ministers, in whom the confidence of the Crown is placed.” 

This was all that was proper. Satisfied with the correctness and humility of their chosen man, the facts of the matter were thus expressed: it was their hope that Fox would join immediately to the convoy bound for Gottenburg and place himself on General Piel’s staff. If, upon uniting with Admiral Coburn’s fleet and finding circumstances favourable and His Swedish Majesty clement, an advance into the Baltic and upon Örtö was jointly proposed, Fox was to take command of the enterprise, with special consideration paid to preserving the Margravine from all possible peril. Should His Swedish Majesty decline British aid in this quarter, as was his sole prerogative, Fox was still to consider the Margravine his particular mission, and was expected to act in conjunction with her equerry to secretly remove her from Örtö and into British custody. In either eventuality, the danger of the waters he was to enter, plagued by poor currents and deadly Danish gunboats, were well to be imagined; and in the expectation of some expeditious overland travel, he should prepare to move lightly, though he would be allowed an aide-de-camp, in the choice of whom they relied upon Fox’s discretion. 

Fox bowed and thanked the gentlemen, already thinking where he might unearth Thire at this advanced hour. An hundred questions had Fox, conscious that to delay for want of detail was unbecoming; and so he confined himself to what appeared to his mind the most pressing, beyond his embarrassing lack of ready money. How was the lady to be informed of his arrival? Who was this equerry and upon what basis was he to be trusted? 

“As for informing the Margravine of our intentions,” answered Amedda, with complacent gravity, “we have an agent in communication with her. They stand ready to smuggle very particular instructions under a neutral flag and among a windfall of contrived Continental post. These will outsail you; therefore, you must be prepared to execute them to the letter, as far as bodily securing the person of the Margravine is concerned. Much will depend on the assistance and local knowledge of this equerry, this Captain Iggson — and of _him,_ the Margravine’s fulsome testimony alone must stand; he has served her these five years past, and must be allowed some steadfastness of character, though he is a foreigner.”

Sir Simon produced a thick sheaf of papers. “Your own instructions, not to be opened until you are at sea; and those for General Piel and Admiral Coburn; and an advance of pay and service allowances you may draw with your agent.” 

Lord Palpatine had nothing to add, except to say smilingly, “May fortune be with you.” And thus with orders under a flying seal, and with a mind flying in all directions, but principally to the northeast — with a diversion to Soho to collect Lieutenant Thire from the amorous attentions of an opera girl — was Fox carried home to upper Mayfair to ponder and prepare and wholly neglect his pillow. 

In that same neighborhood, at the eastern end of Fox’s moderately fashionable street, lay a much more fashionable square, at which lived a handful of dukes, two aged countesses, and one incredibly singular socialite of obscure Continental extraction. Madame de Naberrie conferred brilliance and distinction wherever she went, and widowhood sat most elegantly upon her young beauty; for she had been noble before her marriage to a Company banker, and his premature death had only enriched her beyond all earthly conception, as he had departed this world without issue. Politics and patronage formed the sum of her interests, and she pursued both with a democratic heart; she was all attention to everybody great and small, filling her ground floor with girls in need of protection and occupation, and entertaining statesmen of all stripes in her salons above — though she tended to favour those of the opposition, which somewhat consoled them for not being in government.

Madame de Naberrie had long observed Colonel Fox from her drawing room windows, as he exercised his fine warmblood in revolutions about the square; and one morning, after that incident which elevated him to public notice and which excited her interest and pity, she had taken the opportunity of merging her daily ride with his. He was a poor but disinterested bachelor, she a wealthy but determined widow, and their acquaintance matured easily, giving pleasure to both and pain to nobody (excepting, perhaps, a heartstruck major-general on Indian service), and raising speculation only among narrow-minded gossips who cannot conceive the happy situation of a rich woman with a dead husband. 

That Fox should find a note from Madame de Naberrie at dawn was therefore not in the least unusual; but its contents were too enigmatic to accept coincidence. She sincerely wished Fox to ride out with her at ten o’clock, and should not keep him long, for she understood he might have urgent business away from town. It was a summons no less to be ignored than that received the night before. Fox directed Thire to take charge of the minimal packing and his servant to fetch Aratek from the mews, and he proceeded to shave with particular care. 

Madame de Nabarrie’s bright red landau was as distinctive as her fawn greyhound, Sir Trepio: an exceedingly nervous creature whom she was never seen without, and whom was suffered to sit upon the leather and whine for all of canine kind. “You look exceedingly well,” exclaimed the exalted lady, when Fox came riding alongside her in Hyde Park, — “for a man who was kept late by the undead of Whitehall.”

Fox inclined from his seat with a wry smile. “ _You_ are the agent.”

Madame’s laugh tinkled like the bells on her dog’s collar. “I believe they forget we are near neighbours — and, what is more, friends. Or, more likely still, they enjoy the contrived mystery. But I did not ask you here to detain you from your quest; merely to pass on some intelligence of a more delicate nature, which may help you keep the faith, as it were.” 

Captain Tycho, Madame’s foreign coachman, silently obliged by driving them deeper into the dense park, and at a pace which welcomed whispers. These interludes had often allowed Fox time to observe the man, and vice versa; a mutual respect founded on mutual suspicion — if Tycho _had_ been a captain, it had not been of any legitimate vessel; and if Fox _were_ an Englishman, it must have been through some strange oversight — had long since sprung up between them, though any admiration was all on Fox’s side: for, on soliciting that broad fellow for the ring and receiving a polite refusal, he had learnt that Tycho’s income as Madame’s driver and all-purpose manservant already far exceeded his own. 

“May I first thank you, madam,” began Fox, “for recommending me to the ministers’ notice? I am sensible of their high regard for your judgement of character, and your gracious estimation of mine.” 

“Oh! Do not credit me that which your own merit has secured. I confess, I had hoped you might be the chosen man; but I wouldn’t have done you the disservice to _name_ you. For the minute my lady this, or miss that, or madam t’other venture an interest in these things, they suddenly take it into their heads to be impartial; which is to say, they gratify only their own wishes — or that of the King, in this case. Though, you may be sure, they will take entire credit for _his_ choice when you return successful.”

Fox bowed again, not entirely surprized that he had been almost made to grovel for an assignment that had been his by rights. “To have your faith does more to hearten me than that of his Majesty.” 

Madame sighed wistfully. “Of the general object, I have no great faith at all. Piel is being sent on a fool’s errand, and that of a royal fool, too. However, my confidence in you is unbounded. And if there was ever a face to launch a hundred ships as a feint, it is sitting prettily on Örtö.” 

“I won’t pretend to know what you mean. I was no great fist with classics,” replied Fox, dissembling a little so as not to encourage her — or himself. To hear the Margravine described as a _young lady_ had excited some interest and curiosity; but Fox felt his own good fortune too sensibly to speculate upon yet more. He had a foreign posting, however temporary and inchoate, and that alone satisfied all his worldly hopes at present. 

“You are very right to say so, and so I perceive no danger whatsoever in giving you this,” said Madame, offering up a piece of folded paper. It was a foreign letter, the direction written in an exquisite hand; and in teasing open the broken seal with his gloved thumb, Fox nearly spilt a handful of small, pressed, purple flowers to the wind. Madame continued: “Your object is a regular daughter of Linnaeus, who dearly loves her little island for its richness of life. I understand these anemones bloom only in the last weeks of April.”

“You are well acquainted with the lady, then?” asked Fox, beginning to feel more than he ought. What tender creature must have collected these, before they could be trampled by Cossack boots! 

“Certainly,” answered Madame, “I first knew her in St Petersburg, when she was Princess Tchuchinskaya’s pet, and we have maintained a correspondence ever since.” 

“It was intimated to me that she had a tragic beginning.”

“No more tragic than yours, I dare say — or that of innumerable children who have been so unfortunate as to lose their worthy mothers and made to suffer the whims of their lesser fathers. But come, come!” she cried, startling Sir Trepio into a fresh fit of whimpering. “Now is not the time for personal histories; we are concerned only with securing the Margravine Rigmár’s future. As she was so good as to send a personal token for _your_ wind and favour, know that I shall do the same.”

“And what will you send?”

“Oh, nothing to recall those political vixens of your dear uncle’s time,” replied she, smiling, her eyes full of knowing mischief. “But something suitably foxy, all the same.” 

Fox began to suspect he was being cast in one of Madame’s very unorthodox plots towards universal felicity; and, wishing to know whether her friend was an accomplice or a pawn, he finally made up his mind to be slightly indelicate and shew some interest in the Margravine’s character. “I wonder at her resolve, to invite the possibility of travelling singly with three gentlemen,” said he.

“Do you, indeed? Beheading and quartering remain a favoured punishment in those parts; one of the generals who lost Finland has been so condemned, if they can catch him. Against _that_ happy fate stands the promised preservation of her island if she will embrace a man old enough to be her grandfather. So no, I cannot say I question her desire to absent herself from such a dilemma, whatever the cost to her own reputation — which, of course, cannot be so great at all, since she will have _you_ for her protector.” 

Fox thanked Madame again for her consideration, tucked the paper into his pocket, determined still further on not falling in love, and took his leave. 

With such rapidity had Fox to embark on his first assignment, he had hardly time consider what might be most necessary to bring. He had never been abroad, and so had formed no opinion of sea travel or foreign customs to know what might lessen any discomfort. But he was not to overburthen himself, and he had such a windfall of monies from the agents for forage, dunnage, and sundry incidentals, that he trusted a few changes of small clothes would keep him in tolerably good cheer until arriving at Gottenburg. Indeed, the only real thing fundamental to Fox’s happiness was his horse, and this he could not bring. Parting with Aratek, whom Fox had hardly gone one day in three thousand without, formed the only melancholy part of the business. He loved the animal beyond anything, and would not condemn him to a transport ship on so uncertain a possibility of his being needed; and the first expense of Fox’s campaign was a gratuity to one of the regiment’s better sergeants, for swearing to treat his Colonel’s horse better than Darley’s Arab. 

Fox lavished yet more on the hire of a four-person post, rather than suffer the mail, that he might stretch his legs and speak privately with Thire. This officer, like Corporal Stone, was of those fellow colonial-born curiosities whose commissions Fox funded whenever occasion and good luck afforded, and Fox’s long particular friend. Thire had no notion of a man’s rank or reputation for aloofness which smacked of arrogance precluding him from Thire’s fund of candour and bonhomie (indeed, such a man stood in greater need of it than anybody); and he certainly shared none of those apprehensions of other officers, who found they could not be easy around the solemn Colonel Fox, lest they misstep or misspeak and find themselves twenty paces from the best pistol shot of the day; for if he could stop the heart of a man running, what hope had any stationary fellow whom he _truly_ wished in the ground?

After being acquainted with every detail not under seal and reading the Margravine’s letter, Thire did not despair of the difficulty of their undertaking, of the pinpoint upon which success must be gained, but rather that Fox had not thought to lay any of their new purse upon on it. “I only mean to say, you might’ve popped into Brooks’s before fetching me,” opined that sportive gentleman. “Half the members must know of it, anyhow.” 

“Fred, she is locked in a castle,” said Fox, reclining in his diagonal attitude. “You will be back in London within the fortnight to offer odds for us both, when I am locked in alongside her.”

“Do we at least mean to rescue this lady-in-waiting cousin of hers?” asked Thire, ever eager to hedge current disappointment by the contrivance of future joys. “Is she reckoned very beautiful also?” 

“Much remains to be seen.” And Fox put an end to the conversation by feigning sleep. And Lieutenant Thire, stunned that his friend had made little to no inquiry as to the particulars of the second lady awaiting them, was at liberty to weigh odds in his head, and be alternately sanguine and forlorn all the way to the Suffolk coast.


	2. Chapter 2

_(Private and most secret and confidential)  
Foreign Office, 6th May, 1808_

_My dear Sir,_

_This letter and the instructions it covers will be delivered to you by Colonel Cornwallis Fox, of His Majesty’s Life Guard, on a special mission for the same._

_In the hurry of convening Sir Simon and Admiral Killian upon the awkward development which has been communicated to Ministers by numerous reports from Sweden (of which some copies were to be left for you with H.M.’s consul in Gottenburg), and in securing H.M.’s blessing for our succeeding instructions, it was judged the fastest and best conveyance of this minor addendum to your orders from the Admiralty would be the officer intended to execute them._

_Without entering either onto your books, I pray you will receive Colonel Fox and his lieutenant aboard the Justice; and, upon direct consultation with General Piel, Mr. Gilroy, and the Swedish liaison intimately involved with the particulars of this mission (detailed in the copy of Colonel Fox’s instructions covered here), you will privately consider the recovery of Örtö of first importance in any strategic co-operation with Swedish forces, naval or otherwise._

_If overt assistance in that quarter be not welcomed by His Swedish Majesty, as we have some apprehension of being the case, you will have the goodness also to provide Colonel Fox, at the very least, a fast sailing vessel and able pilot that can bear him discreetly through the Danish Straits to his destinations. Should circumstances further arise which render aid of this sort impracticable or undesirable, it is anxiously hoped you will act in concert with the aforementioned and determine any other means by which Colonel Fox’s instructions might be executed, or obviated to the satisfaction and harmony of all._

_We rely on the strictest confidence in this matter, the general knowledge of which would cause much embarrassment to our principal object, vis-à-vis sustained co-operation with His Swedish Majesty._

_In great haste —_  
_Your most humble servant,_  
_Amedda_

_P.S. — As I believe this detail was overlooked in your official instructions, I must plainly ask you to be so good as to make a stern cabin available for one of the fair sex, in the event of Colonel Fox’s being successful._

  
  
General Piel had spent the early years of the war with France imprisoned in their citadel at Verdun; but it was Russia who offended him still more, by obliging him, after many coalitions seconded to her general staff and after having lost an eye in her service, to now be in the disagreeable position of opposing her. A shortish man whose countenance would have been forbidding without the mutilating scar, Piel was not naturally cheerful; and Colonel Fox had no reason to expect more than the tersest civility from the man he had grievously disappointed, by destroying that very officer who had so heroically sprung the General from France. Without being so indelicate as to advert to the past, Piel did indeed greet Fox aboard the _Valiant_ in a most ill humour, not at all gratified to receive a supernumerary cavalryman upon his staff, least of all this one, who threw further confusion over his mission with a prolix series of instructions Fox had only just opened himself. 

“I see now why my own orders were so vague,” remarked the general, after leafing through the many pages with a silent frown, and suffering Fox to sit in some suspense. “Ministers were too busy composing this quixotic adventure.” 

Fox was already anxious; he had been startled to discover that the lady’s tower was not in fact hyperbole, but an accurate description of his main object on Örtö, and that he would indeed be expected to climb it in the last resort. And now he grew abashed. It was a feeling not long supported, however; Piel returned the papers with little further mockery, saying only, “I suggest you scrub the personal details and sell them to a playhouse on your return. Then you might at least profit by them. As it stands, I see no reason why we should _not_ be encouraged to abuse the Russians in that quarter — though I vouchsafe that pleasure for you alone. To be sure, I would take little joy in it.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Fox, wondering if Piel took joy in anything but vinegar water. “I also should not like to act clandestinely against an ally, and risk embarrassing your operations — though I confess, no one has seen fit to confide to me what those may be.” 

“That is because nobody knows, leastwise Sir Simon. Retaking Finland, rebuffing a Norwegian incursion, conquering France by way of Zealand — the possibilities are as endless as they are fantastical.” And thus Piel brought the abrupt conference to an even abrupter end. 

Nothing could be seriously anticipated before they had the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the situation in Stockholm. So Fox allowed himself to be tranquil in the summer’s sailing through the North Sea and diverted by the simple novelty of his first excursion abroad. Never had he imagined it would be to an island he had never heard of; indeed, until this week, Fox had expected to spend the war in London, where the only sieges were those upon staircases on drawing-rooms or Court days, the only actions to brave hoops and fans and feathers and assist faint ladies from being pressed to death; such droll scenes were, however, far preferable to the ever-present possibility of being mustered to butcher some or other gathering of the populace which government deemed inimical to peace. Fox’s was a household appointment and a household regiment, and with it he should remain — or risk offending the King and disappointing his family by an exchange. 

As Piel’s company was no company to speak of, and as it became understood among the ship’s officers that Fox and Thire were special liaisons for his Majesty (which they took to mean spies), the friends were left largely to their own society, not pestered with questions or trivial conversations during dinners they were as obliged to take as the captain was obliged to host. Much of the voyage was spent in marvelling at the clockwork activity of this little wooden world, as neither had before been on a man-of-war. Indeed, upon combing aboard the _Valiant,_ Fox had realized what an oversight that was. 

“In contravention of the great lexicographer’s wit,” said he to Thire one afternoon as they lounged on the poop deck — “I believe I rather think meanly of myself for not having been a sailor.” 

“What can you mean?” cried Thire. “No horses. No women. No gambling. If I wished to die in church, I could do it at much less inconvenience to myself ashore.” 

Fox laughed. “Sure, it is too late _now_ to forego thrills of the ride — though I wonder if they would be missed, if one had not grown accustomed to indulge in them. But I don’t speak of the lifestyle. Notice the palette of complexions,” said he, gesturing at the gun crews servicing their pieces below. “You and I might be regular John Bulls here among the Jack Tars.” 

“The officers are of the same stamp,” countered Thire. 

“Yes, they are all tanned and leathered to pieces. Weather, especially had one gone early to sea, in time would have excused any deviation from the standard hue. There seems altogether greater toleration of intrinsic difference — though you may argue it is only fostered by those same draconian measures which oppress everybody equally.”

Thire, who never thought to look in a mirror but to admire whichever beauty he found on his arm, turned to his friend in complete puzzlement. “I have never known you to feel it so keenly.” 

“In the main, I do not. But I cannot but wonder if, among a different set of people, where application and vigour were more the thing, I might have been less conscious of it — if it might have not plagued my confidence so.”

“See! There is your error,” said Thire, good-naturedly. “If only you kept my low company, you might know your own worth. Everywhere _I_ go, Colonel Fox is pronounced the finest-formed man in England — though he is an American. Or, better still, have your vanity stroked _and_ your purse fattened and join Stone in sitting for life drawings of an evening.”

Fox smiled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t destroy his monopoly for all the — ” But his reply and conversation in general were lost to the first salvos of gunnery practice, and Fox was left to think on the strange generosity of his father, who, having decided to impoverish his first son before he was out of petticoats, did not preserve still more for his other children by sending Fox to sea as a captain’s servant, and increasing the family distinction at no greater cost to himself than paying for the lieutenant’s exam. Still, Fox recognized that he had comparative blessings — though they might have sat lighter on any lesser man. When the gunfire abated, Fox had thought to continue his discourse with Thire; but gunnery had given way to punnery, and he found his friend’s philosophy engaged in versifying with the master using _lover_ , _lubber_ , and a series of other words descending into something quite unfit to be repeated. 

Nothing occurred for the next few days to make Fox less satisfied at being at sea or to find his horizons less landlocked. He devoured a copy of Coxe’s northern travels that he had found neglected in the wardroom, though suspecting it too outdated to be helpful to the modern traveller; he pored over maps in the generous light of summer evenings to familiarize himself with Scandinavia and the Baltic, which he understood to be tideless, rather fresh, and shallow to a perilous degree in a gale; he wandered the decks when sleep eluded him, kicking midshipmen awake where he found them; he even volunteered to work the pumps that he might not lose any vigour of body, to the great delight and gratitude of the ship’s hands. In short, Fox maintained himself in such a state of constant occupation that his thoughts could not fly too far ahead of him to a cutting-out which might not occur; and which depended so heavily on probabilities and personalities, that he must either succeed and sacrifice all possible credit for the sake of national interest, or must fail utterly and be disgraced; — or to that young lady, whom could have no interest for him, with whom the merest whiff of a scandal might scupper his career, such as it was, and who might yet prove as coarse and horribly Germanic as the Princess of Wales. Not but that Fox had every resolution of remaining unmoved by whatever charms or defects met him in the Margravine Rigmár, and doing his duty towards her as he endeavoured to do everything else: perfectly and professionally. 

The North Sea remained amiable, and the convoy made the Skaw in good time. They dropt anchor in the Wingo Sound after a week and a day of easy sailing, and a collection of flattish rocky islands comprised Fox’s first view of foreign land. The _Valiant_ ’s salute to the Admiral’s flag resounded in his chest, and gunsmoke awoke his feelings still further as he and Thire were rowed to the _Justice_ not a half hour after General Piel; with excitement tinged by trepidation, the brother officers were piped aboard that illustrious vessel and escorted in the great cabin, where Fox handed his thick packet of letters and official papers to Admiral Coburn. 

“This is a very pretty set of instructions,” said the Admiral, after he had fully done with them. Unlike Piel, he had rendered this period of waiting more agreeable by the serving of tea and some first rate cakes. “Such a cloak-and-dagger undertaking, there’s a knighthood and promotion at the end of that, make no mistake. Were I twenty years younger and thought it at all likely of success, I should be almost envious. Do you not agree, General Piel?” Piel only grunted.

Colonel Fox felt himself increasingly sported with, and it galled him exceedingly; but he was long practiced in keeping the bile off his tongue, and was able to reply cooly, “I thank you for your confidence, sirs. But as I understand it, a general operation against the Russian force on Örtö is to be first proposed. Such expeditious assistance, at no cost to Sweden or risk to their arms, in exchange for a pardon of the Margravine Rigmár, is sure to be sanctioned.” 

Coburn’s demeanour softened almost to the point of sycophancy. “Forgive me, Colonel Fox,” he began. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your abilities — never in my life would doubt such an _energetic_ officer as yourself. Indeed, I should have been very pleased to set you off into the Baltic with a few frigates to rout the Russians. Unfortunately, Mr Gilroy has already thought separately to put that same offer to the Swedish King: it was, and continues to be, flatly denied. And it is worse than that: we have not received permission to land troops. The commandant here is not inspired by the idea of a joint operation, and is currently no warm friend to the British. Their admiral, to my no great surprize, is the only man with any sense and with whom I’ve been able to have a straightforward conversation.” 

“Perhaps to _nobody’s_ surprize,” interjected Piel, warmly, “ministers had no very good idea of the martial state of this country before initiating this campaign. It is very bad.” 

“It begins to appear,” said Coburn, “that this entire full-bellied fleet has been gathered for no greater purpose than to stand as so many scarecrows in the sea and discourage any enemy movement across the Sound. And now,” — with a shake of Fox’s papers — “to mask the abduction of this lady.” 

“So you are of the opinion that something can — that something _must_ still be done for her?” asked Fox. 

“Speaking for myself and for the welfare of the Margravine, yes,” returned Coburn. “Mr Gilroy’s reports from Stockholm are worrying; the Russian ambassador has been more or less arrested in a hotel, under guard of cavalry, and forbidden from making any communication. Furthermore, the city is rife rumours of a coup, in consequence of which the King becomes _more_ tyrannical, not less. At one moment, he is determined to starve the Russians out of his dominions, and teach his cousin a lesson, and will not hear of releasing her to our custody; and in the next, he contradicts himself by doubling-down on his vow to arrest her for treason and sail on Kronstadt. As you can imagine, this has created great confusion as to his actual intentions on every question which concerns us and the employment of our forces.” 

Piel thumped Fox on the back, quite shaking the cake crumbs from his coat. “But you must wait with me, Fox, until we have clarity from London. If they really want _me_ to play diplomat, and they really intend to send you to your death and trigger an international imbroglio with our last ally in these parts, I really must insist upon it in plain English. None of this damned vacillating cant.”

During the course of this conversation, as it had became something closer to certain that a clandestine approach would be necessary, Fox had begun to sweat, and Thire had fidgeted about and fingered more cakes than he had perhaps meant to. Upon hearing that there was still time to prepare themselves for their mission, however, they _almost_ grew easy again. 

Admiral Coburn attempted to strike a more comforting tone. “With a little management, you are sure to bring it off. But the sea decides the issue in the Baltic, more often than not. You will need someone to thread the Sound, or wind the Belt if it comes to that; and as the Danes are precious tight with their hydrography and have lifted their buoys, I will need to curry this Swedish Admiral for a local pilot whose loyalties can be bought. And you need to meet Captain Iggson; he came on this ill-wind from Stockholm, but I had him sent him ashore, until I could write to ministers. But they have anticipated me. Now that you are here, it is time to bring him back.” Satisfied with the action plan, the Admiral stood and bowed and begged the carpenter be summoned, that he might rig up a coach for the cavalrymen. 

“Well, what do you think of my odds now, Thire?” said Fox, when they had quitted the cabin. 

Thire whistled and, appearing to take his first breath in many an hour, replied, “I think you should start climbing the backstays.”

The next morning broke as early as the last, and Fox rose into the rigging with it, determined to callous his hands as soon as he might. As he caught his breath in the mizzentop, he spied white plumage above a frightfully white coat grappling up the ship’s side, followed by a shock of blue pantaloons and braid. Thire, whose love of women was only eclipsed by his passion for signals, had been sitting in the top with a copy of Popham borrowed from one of the brighter midshipmen, and the only accessory he had thought necessary to pack: his spyglass. He trained it upon this new specimen of martial vanity, and observed, “What a remarkably well got-up fellow. Does he mean to meet himself at the altar in that, do you think?”

A lieutenant gestured up at Fox with his hat and urged him to descend. “Now, Thire, as I suspect this is the equerry, you will have to play nice,” Fox chided his friend. 

Thire produced an affronted noise. “You may certainly give him and his tailor my compliments.” 

Much to the relief of the _Justice_ ’s hands, who had been watching Fox monkey up the stays with a mixture of dread and botheration, certain they would soon be scraping a colonel off their clean deck, Fox clambered down the shrouds. Hardly had his boots touched wood than the Admiral’s most proactive steward, who had a hatred of shirtsleeves on the quarterdeck, stuffed Fox into his coat; and hardly had the lieutenant announced a Captain Jere Iggson of the Swedish Royal Guard, than that foreign officer took possession of Fox’s face, saluted him on both cheeks, and made the most obsequious bow.

“Colonel Fox, how magnificently good of you to come!” cried he, earnestly clasping Fox by his arms and appearing, if possible, even more satisfied. “Please allow me to welcome you to Sweden on behalf of Gustavus the fourth, Adolphus, by the grace of God, the most puissant king of the Swedes, Goths, and Vandals.” He bowed again, this time so low that the tassel on his hat kissed the deck. 

Fox was extremely grateful that Thire had remained above, for as it was, he could hardly keep his countenance at the man’s pomp and his unfortunate pronunciation of a particular word. “Your servant, sir,” was all he could command himself to reply.

Fortunately, Captain Iggson had not waited to be acknowledged before turning with great promptness to the lieutenant and requesting he be shewn to Admiral Coburn. Once inside the cabin and quite alone with Fox, the captain removed his very vertical hat and scrubbed casually at his dark hair. He was a man of about thirty, of average everything save for his whiskers and mustachios, which were marvellously full and waxed to perfection. “I hope you won’t think me ungenerous, Colonel Fox, when I pray you will excuse that display,” said he, losing much of his accent. “As a known associate of the Markgrevinna, in public I am obliged to play to the gallery.” 

Fox found himself instantly at ease. Here was not a coxcomb, but a man of parts, who knew the power of strategic affectation. “It does you credit, sir,” replied he. 

“But truly,” continued Iggson, “you can have no conception how pleased I am that the English have sent somebody at last — and a brother guardsman, too. Every day that has passed since Mr Gilroy shewed me Lord Amedda’s letter promising as much has taxed my nerves and naturally small store of patience. Is it all decided? Are you accompany me to Örtö?”

“I believe so, but — ” Here Fox was interrupted by the entrance of Admiral Coburn. 

“Captain Iggson,” said that officer, shaking hands. “How good of you to return. Have you had coffee?”

Iggson bowed. “Thank you, no. I am in need of nothing but Colonel Fox, the pilot, the dogger, and yours and the Almighty God’s blessing for the salvation of the Markgrevinna Rigmár. When may we set off? On the morrow, I trust.” 

“Ah,” returned the Admiral, pausing to collect himself and call for coffee anyhow. “While normally of your mind — not a moment to lose, time and tide wait for no man, &c. — the reports which accompanied you from Stockholm have represented to us, that the martial state of affairs here is not nearly so propitious as we had been led to believe. General Piel and I have written to our government, seeking direction on a number of points, before we can commit Colonel Fox to such an enterprise. But be assured, as the packet left on a good wind last night, we shall have an answer within the fortnight.” 

While the colour had been rising in Captain Iggson during this speech, all the nicety which he had shewn himself capable of deploying had drained out. “Am I to understand,” began he, “that you mean to keep my lady in a state of suspense, her fate in the balance, for yet _weeks_ longer? Of allowing _more_ time for the Russians to reinforce? I had not supposed irresolution to be part of the British character — this very ship you command, indeed, is famous the oceans over for its decisive action. Or perhaps I have also been greatly misled.” 

Though he fully entered into Iggson’s feelings, Fox did not feel himself equal to the cold politeness with which Coburn replied to this drubbing: “Your zeal is commendable, Captain. But where _you_ are only committing treason, Colonel Fox will be committing an act of war. You will therefore excuse my caution — or, if you are so desperate to be gone, you can fetch her yourself.” 

The arrival of the coffee encouraged the settling of tempers on all sides. Iggson could not hope to succeed upon his own recognizance; British support, in morale and monies, mitigated much of the mortal risk attendant on such an undertaking. And after Coburn had spent some time calming the cabin further, with casual remarks on the low probability of the Russian’s reinforcing Örtö, with the Swedish fleet now maintaining a blockade of the island, Iggson grew composed enough to reply, “With respect to Colonel Fox, and your judgement, Admiral Coburn, I will defer until you name the time for our departure. And only pray we are not too late.”

The meeting concluded not long after. Fearing that the coffee might have reboiled Iggson’s blood, and moved by his keen distress for the Margravine, Fox invited him into his coach, full of assurances that his orders must stand. These he shared with Iggson, who was delighted with them — nothing had been lost in translation, every suggestion so faithfully retained, the Markgrevinna was sure to agree; and as Iggson was determined to act upon his own initiative, if nobody else’s, the delay afforded them time to refine their plan, to review every possible obstacle, to rehearse the parts they each of them must play to a degree of soundness that rivalled any operation of that war or any before. 

Iggson began by requesting the _Justice_ ’s gig and a party of hands to take him and Colonel Fox into town the next day. They had sailed above ten miles before the great granite cliffs of Sweden climbing towards Norway in the north became appreciable; and as they entered the long rocky head of the Gotha, the town of Gottenburg rose up also, though the height of summer could not improve the aspect of its naked, craggy environs. The harbour was as active and bustling as any Fox had seen in England, and the town itself cut up by tree-lined canals that seemed borrowed from Dutch paintings. At a very shabby inn, which smelt overwhelmingly of gin owing to the juniper branches underfoot which the proprietor mistook for a suitable carpet, Iggson bespoke a bottle of brandy and a table in the corner. 

“This town crawls with Englishmen,” said he, filling their glasses. “None of them frequent here. We won’t be overheard or understood. Now, what actions have you and Lieutenant Thire participated in?”

Fox felt no need to dissemble, and replied directly, “None.” 

“Grand, we can toast to beginner’s luck thrice over. It should be enough to cover us.”

“You have been situated on Örtö some time, then?” asked Fox, once his throat recovered from the unwatered dram that seemed to have been distilled solely from aniseed. 

“Five long years, with only the Markgrevinna and Lady Chokova to keep a man from dying of boredom — and even so, it has sometimes been close thing. All society in Wisby died in the last Danish invasion.” 

“Are we also to bring Lady Chokova out?” asked Fox, reminded of his friend's interest. “It’s the one point on which my instructions are equivocal.” 

“No. I have thought this over in some length. In the infancy my plotting with Mr Gilroy, a final letter from the Markgrevinna reached me. In it, she suggested Lady Chokova might create a diversion in the critical hour by removing herself in the royal coach; the two ladies bear an uncanny resemblance in every outward respect, and such is the fashion for veils, the ruse could be easily done. I intend to abide my lady’s suggestion: it is sound and will serve to embarrass the Russians. How they would crow to secure the Markgrevinna! — but to find they have misplaced her will keep them meek and Stockholm ignorant.” 

“Lady Chokova must be very attached to the Margravine to expose herself thus to the Russians,” said Fox. 

Iggson’s mouth appeared to twist against the knowledge of something amusing, which he prudently but vexingly kept to himself. “She is fond enough. But she is their countrywoman, and _they_ will not behave half so barbarously to a noblewoman as my own sovereign, I am ashamed to say. Besides this, Lady Chokova’s character is not formed for secrecy or great strain. As midsummer will make stealth difficult enough, I think the Markgrevinna’s plan a good one.” After ordering quite a spread of comestibles, which Fox regarded with suspicion but determined to find the enthusiasm to enjoy, Iggson produced far superior maps of Sweden and Örtö than had been found on the _Valiant_.

Two acts would be needed, with the principal actors playing two parts: firstly to divert the occupants of Örtö, and secondly to dissemble somewhat among the peasantry of Småland. That they would make their return journey overland was mutually agreed upon: the mail could hardly be trusted to the hostile Baltic these days, so neither would the precious Margravine. Traversing Sweden by post would be much the speedier and safer course, as the people themselves were not at all inimical to the English and should not know the Margravine from Eve. The dash upon Örtö, however, would be much the trickier operation. 

Iggson would play himself: approaching Wisby from the northeast, as though having ridden from the Swedish fleet at Slite, he would wave a flag of truce to falsely parley with Admiral Talzarov, attempt contact with the Margravine, and theatrically bundle Lady Chokova away. The full strength and disposition of the Russians was unknown, but it was not reckoned above four battalions, and they would not likely be fortifying the town. Wisby’s harbour did not deserve the appellation, and had been made to receive longships, not modern frigates; as the Russians would not anticipate a counterlanding there, Iggson supposed instead they would be amassed along the eastern half of the island, with forward positions at Slite and protecting their rear at Gammelgarn. However, to buy time and confuse any search for the Margravine, Lady Chokova would, in the veiled guise of her lady, be driven towards the Russian ships in the east with Jere riding in attendance, until he saw fit to peel away into the night. Meanwhile, Fox would escape southwards with the Margravine. How should Fox like to dress for the occasion? Might it be wiser for him to be Russian or Swedish? Iggson had cards of all the best tailors in Gottenburg, and it would be the work of a moment to bespeak the uniform of some minor Austrian regiment which might confuse anybody with a martial eye — assuming they had enough cloth to cover a man of Fox’s stature, of course. 

Fox could not but interrupt. “I thank you,” said he, “but a disguise is deplored, on points of practicality and principle. My only languages are English and French, and the latter only tolerably serviceable for cards and horseflesh. What is more, I should be summarily shot if discovered.” 

After a pause, Iggson offered, “You might wear your shirtsleeves.”

“Before a royal lady?” said Fox, a flush mounting in his cheeks. “Certainly not.” 

Iggson could only sigh. “Very well. If you _must_ be an Englishman, you will needs ride hard and stick to the trees on Örtö to mask your coat. But on the mainland, you and Lieutenant Thire should be of little consequence; English tourists are everywhere to be met with, now that the classical cities are barred to you. And in every town on earth you might find an English envoy — capital diplomatists, providing they are not fire-eating Whigs. You are not a Whig?” 

Fox quickly lost what ruddiness his face had gained. “I am a military man,” said he, wondering that such an urbane officer appeared not to read newspapers. 

“It matters not. As your coachman, I will do all the talking and arranging at the post-houses. The Markgrevinna will be your mute sister; dumbness will conceal her accent, and may excuse whatever motley of travelling clothes you find her in, God love her.” 

To this lady, whom Fox was to snatch from under the nose of the hopeful Admiral and his bridal party by grappling line and gallantry, the conversation now turned in earnest. She resided in old Wisborg Castle, a medieval fortress that had grown in fits and starts over the centuries to abut the town’s eastern wall; on the other side of this fortification lay a grassy moat and grove, where Fox was to wait shrouded, until the flashing of a candle signalled that Iggson had succeeded in his ruse, or until Fox marked the marked the hour before dawn (which in summertime came early indeed).

Fox pointed to one of dozens of towers on the map. “I understand the Margravine expects me in this one: the Maiden’s Tower. Is there some significance?”

“Only if you believe in folk stories,” replied Iggson. “Some centuries ago, a squire’s daughter or other allowed one of those rapacious Danish kings into Wisby, flattered by his overtures towards her. When he and his army had gone, along with most of Wisby’s food and wealth, the townsfolk walled her up in the tower and suffered her starve to death.”

“Good God,” cried Fox, feeling their delay keenly. “I trust the Margravine is not thus confined?”

“No, she keeps an apartment in there. It possesses the finest views over the moat-lawn and country beyond, and it appeals to her sensibilities in summertime.” 

Here was an opening for safely enquiring about the lady herself, and Fox found himself asking first of all, “Can she ride?”

Iggson’s expression alone said this was ridiculous question. “Pshsa! She is not one of those babes who fall off withered, titled trees to grow coarse and stupid in the provinces. I do assure you, she is quite refined; a most capable horsewoman, when mounted properly and on not too large an animal. That reminds me: we shall likely be in great difficulty of good horses.”

After being so reassured — _more_ than reassured in his estimation of the Margravine, this was a blow to Fox. “Throughout our journey? Then we ought to reconsider cutting across the country.” 

“On Örtö in particular,” said Iggson. “Though their cousins in on the mainland are hardly better, being rather small and in general a punishment to ride.” 

“If we are obliged to take horses with us, will have to employ a larger boat through the Sound. Our progress will be slowed still further.” 

Iggson waved Fox’s concerns away. “No, no, nothing so desperate as that. We are to come ashore at Gnisvärd for a reason beyond its inconsequence.” He stuck his knife into the map, about a finger’s length, or twelve miles south of Wisby, and continued: “Last summer, I saved the rector from drowning, and he vowed to Heaven to return the favour. His confidence can be trusted, as a man of the cloth; and he will surely oblige me by fetching horses from the parish.” 

“And if he does not?”

“I will put him back into the sea.”

Fox determined to put the possibility of a miserable mount out of his mind, for being the least of his possible worries. “Gnisvärd is where Thire and the boat are to wait?” he asked.

Iggson nodded. “And where I will rendezvous with you and the Margravine.”

“On the outside chance you aren’t promptly arrested — or, remoter still, that the Russian Admiral swallows the bait and permits her leave in so strange and hurried a manner,” Fox offered to his own spleen. He did not find that this sugared sour cream agreed with him — or, perhaps, the putrid fish it met in his stomach. 

“Well, we will take that chance,” returned Iggson, endeavouring at a cheer he did not normally shew. “And it is a good one, for he is desperately in love with her. And then we will take the next chance and the next, until they are spent.” To appease the Englishman, Iggson replaced their brandy with porter, finished off the herring, and rearranged their maps to open upon a new subject. “Now, when we come ashore at Vestervik ... ”

About ten days after this conference — during which time Captain Iggson exchanged Fox’s notes for bags and bags of copper coinage, acquired for himself a most humble coachman’s outfit, and surreptitiously obtained false passports for them all (which had been made out to a Captain, Lieutenant and Miss Pitt, proving some acquaintance with the newspapers) — it became certain they were to depart. A waxed bag was upturned onto Admiral Coburn’s dining table, its letters were distributed, and a few hushed minutes’ reading confirmed it all: Piel and Fox were to progress with their assignments — one to wait upon the king in Stockholm, the other to rescue his cousin on Örtö. Lord Amedda’s letter, indeed, was unequivocal; Colonel Fox was to excuse the vulgarity, but he was to be left in no confusion on one point: the rape of the Margravine Rigmár at the hands of the British must not be suspected by the Swedish King, whose accord was absolutely requisite for British interests in the Baltic; her disappearance from that island must needs appear to be all her own work. 

On a mild June morning, therefore, the trio of cavalrymen squeezed themselves and their single travelling trunk into some species of coastal craft, the name of which Thire could not utter without laughing; and they bore away down the Kattegat under neutral colours and the direction of a Swedish pilot and his teenaged son, who were to be richly rewarded for their services and silence. This was, however, hardly the pleasure cruise the sailing from England had been; very frequently were all five men needed handle the boat, and Fox’s desire to be a seaman was more than satisfied, finding he did not much like being shouted at to respond to imperceptible alterations in the wind. Two days into their journey, as they approached the Sound, they were obliged to hug nearer the coast, which had grown less interesting and variegated, lest they excite the interest of Danish gunboats. And excepting coming under regular fire, Danish shells spitting spray upon their heads, and spending an entire day plying the wind and praying to God to outrun a privateer who seemed bent upon boarding them, they were not much harassed. 

The sight of Cronburg had excited much interest among the English crew; in Thire it prompted soliloquies from Hamlet foretelling their doom as he clung fast to the tiller; in Fox, it aroused feelings of pity for Queen Matilda, which, once the exhausting, dangerous business of clearing the Sound was behind him, he ventured to share with Iggson — how similar her situation to the Margravine’s — how many women incarcerated by mad rulers — how His Majesty must have pitied his wife on learning that her great-niece might share the fate of his own sister. Here, Iggson interjected: “It is only right that he should. But in contrast to that unfortunate lady, the Markgrevinna has done nothing to invite her situation; her conduct has always been virtuous and unimpeachable.”

Still thinking he might find a lady of some rustic and antiquated simplicity, Fox ventured to ask, “What sort of woman is she? Besides virtuous.” 

“Are you familiar with Linnaeus?” returned Iggson. This time, Fox could claim he did — he had had chanced upon an English life of the naturalist in a bookseller’s window, and recollecting Madame de Naberrie’s words, had purchased it purely for his general edification. Iggson went on to explain that Linnaeus had been charged by the Diet to interrogate Örtö for all species of useful stuffs, but particularly that type of clay which might enable Sweden to manufacture its own china, so excessive and injurious was the Eastern trade at that time. His visit somewhat elevated that backwards place in the learned notice, for it prompted him to first employ binomials, and in the fashionable circles, because he likened Wisby to Rome. This was, of course, nonsense (he had never been south of Paris), and neither was he successful as far as the Diet was concerned. “But in installing the Markgrevinna Rigmár upon the island,” concluded Iggson, his normally sardonic features almost thoughtful, “it is fancied the King completed Linnaeus’s commission. No porcelain could be finer than her features.”

This panegyric did not answer Fox’s question as much as it raised others. He bowed his head to conceal his smirk, and on recovering, said smilingly, “You speak with the poetry of a knight. Do you mean to reunite with your fair lady with such ardour?” 

Iggson looked at Fox steadily for a moment. “It would do me no honour to betray such sentiments. I have nothing beyond professional regard for the Markgrevinna.” Then, after a period of acute silence — “Though her father was considered extremely handsome.”

As the captain had been watching Thire strain to employ a dragnet over the gunwale, Fox perceived immediately how it stood.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wisborg  
17\. May_

_Dearest Padmé,_

_I do not know when I shall have the opportunity of sending this letter to you. All the same, I will feel better for writing it. Your clever courier succeeded; his bravery and your munificent kindness to the clergy and tradespeople shall not be forgot. Commerce has much increased with such a number of visitors, and a general holiday spirit prevails, as if the Russians had come only to summer upon Örtö. But even if their money and intentions had been good, I fear the island cannot long sustain a bloated population under a double blockade. The sooner I am gone, the sooner relief and resupply will come._

_As I had feared, about a week after I first wrote you, an edict from the King arrived which declared I shall be arrested for treason. It is apparent he views the surrender of this island with the same contempt as that of Sveaborg — a compliment to Örtö, to be sure, tho’ a false comparison. That I should have resisted, with as much vigour and loss of life! — with what force, I ask heaven. Had I but swallowed a cannonball and died for my country. The mayor begs me declare for Russia; it is not in my power nor heart to do so. I am bound to my Sovereign, though he treats me ill, and has never forgiven me for being raised in St Petersburg on his orders._

_Onya is in mourning. Admiral Talzarov brought news of the death of her betrothed, the Russian general who fell at Sveaborg. He was not young and stumbled fatally upon a rock. She is very anxious, almost giddy to be gone home as soon as may be, and is prepared to do her duty with alacrity. Meantime, tho’ Onya says I could pass for the maiden’s ghost, so pale and thinned out am I, the Admiral presses his suit to the utmost._

_As it is unlucky to speak of him and his kind by name, and I am woefully short of that article, all that remains to say is this: I pray your Brown-Legs arrives soon, — and that Jere is with him._

_With esteem & truth, &c.  
Rigmár_

_P.S. — to complete my wretchedness, the Russians’ musketry and artillery and devilry has disturbed my birds. I find no eggs in the casements and my starlings’ song is much diminished._

  
  
There were no march lords in Sweden; there should also have been no Rigmár Tchuchinskaya.

She had come into the world quite against the wishes of the late King of Sweden. Not finding himself impressed with his brother’s latest choice of bride, he had conceived that a long engagement would put an end to what appeared a fleeting attachment; he had not reckoned upon it putting an abrupt end to the lady also, when she died in childbed, having carried the issue of lovesick affection secretly to term. While this tragedy did not unduly inconvenience the prince, who returned to the bosom of his mistress that she might console his grief, it rather embarrassed the king; he felt himself in some ways responsible for insisting on a period of separation which drove two people to such acute distraction, when he might have permitted them to wed and very probably earned a maternal martyr for the country. The lady, too, had been of a proud German duchy which abutted his lands in Pomerania. Upon these uncomfortable considerations, and as it was more fun to be Enlightened than strictly Lutheran in these matters, the king resolved to recognize the child; so he introduced his niece at court with a name and title that could offend nobody, for he had made it up over _The Beguiling of Gylfi_ and a bottle of schnapps.

The little margravine was a sensation, largely because nobody pitied and loved her more than the prince’s popular mistress. An erstwhile ballet dancer, this lady was widely beloved for her good nature, humility, and _recherché_ elegance which flattered the increasingly francophile Court. Eight years did Rigmár dangle quite happily from this kind lady’s skirts, her every whim indulged only as far as honest, humbly-born sense allowed, and her tiny feet instructed to provide such precious and universal pleasure, that much of Sweden joined _lilla Ria_ in regarding the lady quite as her mother. 

Favour and fortune, however, are yoked to fickleness: the king was assassinated, the dancer’s star descended, and Rigmár’s did likewise. Being now of a talkative and ungainly age, she was not liked by her father’s new favourite; and the new king also considered her with contempt, for she was an untidy footnote in his absolute claim to the throne. Russia and Sweden being at this time civil neighbours, the king despatched her to the distant court of St Petersburg, where she might be lost in a sea of aristocrats and remain ignorant of her own importance. But after being born to a German duchess and raised by a Swedish mistress, to be perfected by a Russian princess was all Rigmár lacked to make her thoroughly interesting as an heroine; and the Princess Tchuchinskaya, elderly and in need of company and a project, executed the task masterfully. Indeed, so pleased was she with her own work, that she adopted the girl quite as her own daughter. 

Lady Tchuchinskaya’s eighteenth year, however, did not see her grand debut at any number of courts which she might have been supposed to grace. Her princely father had spent the last years of his life travelling through France, seemingly with no other view than to find young men and search for husbands for his daughter; the Princess Tchuchinskaya had, with greater diligence and consideration for Rigmár, combatted all the subsequent bad offers of marriage. The prince had succeeded, however, in bending the ear of more than one Marshal of France, and it had so alarmed the francophobe King of Sweden, that when the Princess Tchuchinskaya was finally called heavenward, he recalled his cousin from St Petersburg, only to install her in the empty castle on Örtö, where she might be splendidly blue-blooded and marriageable in solitude.

Excepting the precipitous death of her mother, there had been no drastic vicissitudes of fortune in Rigmár’s young life; only transitory frights followed by interesting changes of gilded scene. But to find her now, aged but three and twenty, in daily expectation of a chevalier charged with spiriting her to safety, might be supposed to pitch the romance of her life too high for the taste of the discerning reader. 

The lady herself was sensible of it, and wearied by it likewise. Above a month had Rigmár maintained a nocturnal vigil for the arrival of this gentleman, singly or at the head of a British force, who was to effect her quick escape in those few and shortening hours of darkness. She dismissed her maid early, bidding her to enjoy the summer evenings and the Russian soldiers; took a twilight nap which Lady Chokova was ordered to interrupt the moment she retired for her own bed; and spent the whole of each night pinning and wrapping her hair, donning the simplest frock, setting out her boots, preparing her things, pacing her apartments, and writing letters she had no opportunity to send, simply that she might remain awake. It would not do justice to her rescuer to be caught unprepared; though in those eerie and friendless hours, she was beginning to despair of his arriving at all. 

“What do you suppose he’ll be like?” Onya had asked of a previous evening, before her short allowance of natural fortitude had been spent and she could no longer persevere with her lady through the night. 

“Whom do you mean?” returned Rigmár.

“Come, Ria, don’t be coy — you don’t wear it well. I mean this Englishman of yours!”

Rigmár had been occupied in unsetting jewels from her diadems and tiaras, crudely cutting them from their mounts that they might be concealed, along with all the earrings, necklaces, brooches and bracelets that had ever been bestowed upon her, in the lining of her muff; and had, in truth, been supposing Onya to be carrying on with some preoccupation with self, and not attended the question. “I haven’t given it a moment’s thought,” said Rigmár. “It is to the Queen that I go, not to him.” 

“Yes, but without the toil and courage of this officer, you will go to Talzarov — or worse!” Here, Onya had been forced to lay aside the hat she was covering with black crepe, momentarily too overcome with awful prophecies to manage another stitch. 

Rigmár had not spoken the full truth: she _had_ spared a few minutes here and there, especially when fetching for sleep, in considering the gentleman who was to enable her escape and accompany her to England. On him, Padmé’s note had been cryptic in the extreme. But to encourage Onya’s rapid imagination never tended to good, so Rigmár had been content to drop the subject. Onya was not; she recovered herself enough to ask expectantly, “Is he married, do you think?”

“Very probably.” Besides, Rigmár had reasoned, it would be altogether more proper if he were.

“How provoking! Especially in an officer. They have no business being so. I wonder if he will be” — here Onya had employed a dramatic whisper — “a _swell_.”

Rigmár had no pretensions to Onya’s knowledge of what sorts of men were currently in vogue. She merely anticipated somebody quite insipid in aspect, too perfectly polite to be real, or otherwise vainglorious to a noxious degree. “I suspect he shall be like any other,” said she. 

But in all the anxious and unoccupied days of waiting which intervened, is it any wonder he took on a decidedly more attractive and enthralling character? He would have to be a reliable man, to be tasked with such an errand — extraordinarily strong, too, if he was expected to remove Rigmár by himself. His rank and regiment remained a mystery, but her mind had readily supplied a striking scarlet coat set off by no small amount of gold. She knew only his family name — or thought she did — and she had scanned her current stock of English newspapers which Padmé had always been so good as to send her, in the hopes of finding any mention of it. The family had boasted a very prominent politician, but Rigmár was ignorant of the degree of connexion, and no officer of that name had been recently gazetted, nor played an even ancillary role in one of a hundred births, marriages, or deaths. 

After all, Rigmár began to suppose there was little evil in him _not_ being married: she was merely to be carried to safety, and was not prone to being carried away by romance. And happily for the relief of her imagination, she had not much longer to wait. 

A few miles south of her, two gentleman had finally waded upon rocky beach; they had only to pause for the sliver of darkness, and the return of one indebted rector from his errand to fetch the best horses that could be lent at such short notice, to continue their advance upon her.

Twilit Örtö had appeared to Fox like an island painted by the wind, its trees and verdure brushed aslant by Baltic weather. And as he now sat in a ellipse of runic stones, like the dry dock of some Northmen’s longship, the air thick with thyme and blooming orchids, Fox was sensible of the impression of having entered a fiction. In this story, however, he should have written out the maybugs, who plagued his neck and ears to distraction, and written in a dry change of breeches, to be fortuitously supplied by some fae or farmer. 

“If horses be this dear in Sweden proper,” said he in a hushed voice to his companion, already forming a very low opinion of a country that did not rate a good and ready supply of horses as one of the chief necessaries of life, — “we shall be obliged to return the way we came. I do not care to _walk_ to Gottenburg.” 

“The peasants here do as they please,” replied Iggson. “They are not in the habit of receiving visitors, and hold nobody but God and the weather in any esteem.”

“Then the rector might be supposed to have met with more success.” 

“They are observantly Protestant.”

After some minutes more of troubled reflection, Fox spoke again: “Won’t they be sorry to find the Margravine gone? She must confer some measure of distinction.”

“She kisses babies and visits the sick and succours the poor as prettily as the next liege lord,” said Iggson. “But Örtöiters are not awed by title. There was no Markgrevinna five years ago, and they have no reason to suppose there will be another five years hence.”

“But to imagine she fled to the Russians ... ”

“You oversell her popularity. Besides, you may be consoled that it is a temporary fiction.”

“I only mean that it would rather spite the face to remove her, only to ruin any future hope that she might be restored.” 

“It is far too late for such scruples,” scoffed Iggson. “And I rather believe we are doing her a favour: her bloom is wasted on this rock. When I have my Bath star — I must now forsake all hope of the Seraphim, more be the pity — it will be my greatest pleasure to watch her grace St Jameson.” 

Fox looked wryly at his associate. “And you suggest that _I_ oversell her — ” 

But the officers’ competitive aggrandizement of the lady was silenced by a rustling in the undergrowth. It was the rector, bearing a collection of equine diversity in a Holstein, a nag, and a portly pony. Iggson instantly claimed the Holstein with pleasure, declaring he was unlikely to find its equal anywhere (except in Wisby’s stables, of course). As Iggson had further and faster to ride, and an entrance to make, it was only right that she should have it. Fox had only to go about a dozen miles due north, hugging the coast where he was able, but always remaining in the treeline to obscure his regimentals; nevertheless, he missed his solid, swift-sure Aratek extremely as he mounted the nag with audible dismay.

“Stop complaining,” said Iggson. “You have night’s cloak to hide her, and it is not the horse that will climb the stony limits for your love.” 

“She is _not_ my love. I merely doubt this beast’s ability to carry me without perishing. It looks salt-licked.” 

“Then start running, Englishman. I am off to lie for my place in hell. If I am not returned to the boat by five, you may do well to make the Margravine Rigmár your wife.” 

Fox was now convinced that Iggson had been at the brandy. “I beg your pardon?” 

“As a fabrication, when you reach Vestervik — or in truth, if she will have you. The rector could be of service there. Goodbye.” And with that, Captain Iggson galloped gone. 

The nag was _not_ quick; but the distance was not great, and within an hour, and without encountering a soul, Fox beheld the dark silhouette of towers and turrets and the low, vivid starlight of an earthly town. The rector had confirmed Iggson’s guess about the disposition of the Russians: there were only a few companies at Wisby, quartered in the town’s many ruined churches, and their sentries were not known to be active. The environs about the medieval stone walls abounded in wild rose bushes and apple trees, altogether producing the effect of a most pleasantly cultivated folly. Fox’s nose appreciated its beauty more than his eyes were able to, though he was powerfully alive to everything, aware that the great current of his life was passing through a pinch point, and how he conducted himself here would decide the direction of everything that followed. 

Fox counted the towers from his shrouded position, and finding the fourth did indeed bear a single, lit window, he urged the nag directly opposite it. The pane was latticed and the glass thick, and Fox tried to discern any alteration in the glow which might signal occupants moving within, sorry he had not thought to borrow Thire’s glass. Tying his mount and the jolly pony to a tree, he watched and waited; then he watched his watch, urging on the time when Captain Iggson might reasonably, given his facility for deception and making himself agreeable when he chose, be expected to gain access to the castle, and make contact with the ladies Fox assumed were inside. 

There was no false modesty or ungallant inattention in Fox’s private admission that he knew as much of the fairer sex as he did of Chinese. Excepting the princesses and Madame de Naberrie — none of whom could be considered average representatives — he had spent little time in their company. A greater endeavour to do so might occasionally have been made, Fox could own, but to what purpose? However handsome he was allowed to be, and whatever royal whim he might then be sailing upon, nobody would trust their daughter or her fortune to a Fox, especially one with none of his own, and who was known to haunt the Fancy and patronise the pugilistic likes of Corporal Stone. And there were plenty of wealthier cavalrymen for those women who did not mind playing second fiddle to a horse for him to be more than an object of passing and shallow admiration. 

As Fox was starting to nervousness, debating whether this inexperience made him more or less impressionable, and fingering his rope into more complex knots, — 

There! The window fell utterly dark. 

A few heartbeats later, it was illuminated again. Thrice was the light cut and restored. And at last — ! The pane was opened. 

Fox tumbled down into the moat, trying to outrun his moonlit shadow across the greensward, before coming to an ungraceful stop against the stones. Above him, at the height of about three stories, a dressed head became silhouetted against the night sky, and a feminine voice halloed and asked, in hesitant but clear English, if there was a fox afoot? 

He had the right lady! So relieved was Fox, that he had to exert himself to recall his prepared speech; but at last he found his words and his voice, and he answered her in his most basic Swedish, proclaiming himself as Colonel Cornwallis Fox for King George, His Most Britannic Majesty, and for the preservation of the Margravine of Örtö in the face of injustice. 

The pane did not close upon him. “I joy in thee, sir,” came the voice again, fairer and more confident in itself. “I am the lady you seek, and if you will but wait a moment — ”

With no notice given or assistance urged, something was presently thrown from the window. Fox caught it, but only just — and hardly time had he to wonder why a muff was needed in June, and then to appreciate that it was fox fur, than a pair of galoches landed in the grass beside him. A bundle of clothes gathered in a shawl Fox managed to intercept, before he began to wonder if the Margravine meant to throw herself out next. She reappeared, but only to wave for his grappling hook. Fox tossed it up with maiden delicacy at first, testing the distance by degrees, fearing to loudly strike the iron upon the stones, and also fearing she would try to grab it from the air. More alarmingly, the lady poked out from the window again, saying in a pert voice, “You must thrust it through the window, sir.”

“If your ladyship will _please_ step back. I fear to hurt you, otherwise,” Fox implored, before retreating some paces from the wall to see that she obeyed. He cleared the hook over the ledge with the next throw. 

Some few feet of rope snaked through Fox’s hands as the lady worked to secure it for his ascent. “It is affixed, sir,” said she. “Should I — ... do you wish me to descend?” 

“No! No, my lady,” cried Fox. “I beg you remain. I will come to you.” And thus, after a few firm, investigative tugs, trusting entirely to Iggson’s description of the Margravine as a capable woman, did Fox rappel himself up a tower, conscious that nobody was like to believe him, in the mess or elsewhere, unless he was also successful in rappelling back down with his witness. Twice his boots slipped upon some moss, but his hands did not falter. He arrived at her window in no time at all. And with more Shakespearean comedy than gravity did Colonel Fox finally squeeze himself through the narrow, ancient aperture and into the Margravine Rigmár’s presence. 

The first impression each formed of the other adequately accorded with their hopes: the officer was relieved to find the smallest iteration of womankind; the lady reassured to see a broad coat heaving with authority. 

Indeed, he appeared to her an acre of braided bullion; that he was a cavalryman was evident by his jackboots, strongly formed limbs, and buckskin breeches which he had apparently taken care to dampen to his frame. But his complexion and features were unlike any Englishman’s she had seen; his countenance was intelligent, and there was something in the set of his dark eyes which seemed to hold centuries of concern. Rigmár could privately admit she was not unhappy to find him less bland than she had expected. 

If Fox did look thoughtful, he had sufficient reason, beginning with the fact that he was stood inside a lady’s chamber (that rarest of occurrences) — and that she had apparently trusted his safety to the strength of her bed, a prodigious, ancient thing which crowded the tapestried apartment and might have been borrowed from Queen Bess. He was also desperate for her to address him, that he might salute her hand, which Iggon had so strictly insisted was _de rigueur._ Was she to offer it? — or was he to take? Fox hardly knew, and he prevaricated by marvelling that so much interest could rest upon so small a person! He feared any addition of his own would quite overwhelm her. It could not be helped, however: outwardly, she was loveliness itself; and the beseeching expression in her light, almond eyes — the only feature of hers which could be called large — moved Fox to approach and bow over her hand without further ado. It was all the formality he felt time allowed, and he asked abruptly, “Are you ready to leave, my lady?”

The Margravine nodded, animating those ringlets which had escaped her gauzy headdress — outmoded in general taste, but to Fox rather quaint and becoming. “Yes,” she managed to say at last as her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, I am ready. I have said farewell to Onya — that is, to Lady Chokova, and she will hide the rope once we have done with it.” 

“Very good, ma’am,” said Fox, not liking, however inadvertently, to be the catalyst for any lady’s tears. 

Upon scanning the moat and satisfying himself that no one was moving without, Fox manoeuvred back through the window. How he dreaded the descent! It was not far, but he would have no secure hold upon her, and must trust every thing to her own power. The Margravine, who would look at home among lambs, shuffled herself easily to sit outward on the ledge. And cantilevered in such a precarious manner against the tower’s masonry, Fox received her about his neck. “I’ve got you, my lady,” said he, begging that she cleave firmly to his front and about his waist, for he must use both hands to lower them down. 

Thus, with a face full of silk and the sweetest scent, he bore her bodily from the tower. 

The Margravine proved an inconsequential burthen; and when Fox’s boots reunited with the good earth, he swiftly carried her up and out of the moat also. Contented that they had not been spotted, Fox returned to gather her things, his arms trembling from great excitement and exertion, and a deep satisfaction he could not recollect having felt before. 

Any fears that he would find the Margravine excessively nice were allayed when he found her already upon the pony and attempting to adjust the stirrup leathers. “Allow me, ma’am,” said he, suddenly torn between preserving the modesty of this purportedly virtuous woman by looking away — her skirts had necessarily ridden up, and a considerable length of clocked stocking was visible above her boots — or attending with care to what he was about. 

“I thank you and am honoured by your coming here, Colonel Fox,” said the Margravine softly, endeavouring to be gentle with him — not realizing, perhaps, how his name suddenly on her lips caused him to fumble the buckle. 

“It is a privilege to do my duty,” he replied perfunctorily, knowing better than to reckon his triumph in the last furlong. “But it is not yet done. Now, if your ladyship will endeavour to keep up with my horse — as you know we must outride the dawn to Gnisvärd.” 

The Margravine surprized Fox by replying with some spirit, “ _This_ is an Örtö pony. I might give you the same advice, sir.” Then, adjusting her seat somewhat proudly as though she were astride Bucephalus, her ladyship was off, bobbing away in the gloam, before Fox could even mount his nag. Her observation was supported by more than her advanced start. The nag had no second wind. And all twelve miles did Fox chase the Margravine, straining his steed and his sight not to lose the white flicker of this sprite, and feeling a more than lively interest in the pursuit.


	4. Chapter 4

_Excerpt from_ The Diary and Reminiscences of Captain Thire, formerly of the Life Guards and M.P. for Hedon, being Anecdotes of the Barracks, the Baltic, and the Bawdy-Houses, at the time of the last War with France, related by himself, 1847.

_18 June. — Writing this because, I can! (And my boredom is beyond belief.) Fancy, it is past midnight, but by this northern sun, I am able to make out my script without aid.  
I have ventured from this boat only to collect some blades of grass — witness, mama! I have conquered land! sure, the Cossacks are to conquer me next, so exposed and friendless and poorly armed as I am. If they offer better food, however, I will submit willingly. Everything here is horrid. If I eat one more pickled fish, I shall start honking and be hunted for sport and vittles.  
Meanwhile, Fox scurries ashore to nab his hen from her crenellated coop.  
Weather keeps fair, not in the least harassing. Unlike this pilot’s nocturnal tattoo; it is like he swallowed Odin’s thunder, the stupid fellow.  
May my present cheer remain, when we about-face and make towards a probably unfriendly country at our rere. Will be much happier if the lady’s cousin is brought out also._

  
  
With more joy than malice did Lieutenant Thire kick the pilot awake, when he finally spied Colonel Fox jogging down the beach and into the shallows with a lady in his arms. And though his spirits slumped a little not to see Captain Iggson similarly laden — indeed, not to see Captain Iggson _at all_ — Thire was already ten pounds richer by Fox’s appearance; and he expected, in a moment, to behold a most interesting creature. 

The Margravine’s effects were first handed him, and then the Margravine herself, who, by her stature, Thire first considered must be rather more _young_ than _lady._ The falling open of her high-collared capelet, however, answered his curiosity; and privately he congratulated Fox for at least securing to himself the eternal regard of a rich, well-apportioned lady, whatever her character proved to be.

After her assurances that she was quite dry were allowed to be truthful, so far as critical parts were concerned, formal introductions were made. And though the dogger compared poorly in appearance — Fox was highly embarrassed that Thire had not thought fit to even clear a seat — it then took on the air of a royal yacht unfortunately run aground; the Margravine hugged her muff in her lap and sat mutely at the prow, as if to begin her charade now, while the two officers stood looking officious and stupid, except when struck by a reminder of some thing or other lady might require — Iggson’s noxious brandy was politely declined, but the pilot’s schnapps was declared a godsend.

Thus the party waited, anxious and not at all easy, as the strange dawn of the North simpered greenly over the trees; until at last Captain Iggson broke into view galloping down the beach, and not quitting his horse until he could step from its saddle and directly into the boat. It would have been difficult to say whom he was most pleased to see — his lady (once she had done scolding him), or Colonel Fox for having delivered her. Iggson saluted her hand with both of his and every inch of his mustachios; and he embraced Fox as a brother, which was gratitude indeed from the Swede. 

An account of Lady Chokova was quickly demanded. Iggson was pleased to report that he had left her and the servant she had dressed in her own widow’s weeds tucked inside the carriage, bobbing safely away to Gammelgarn with two very agreeable-looking Cossacks riding in attendance. It was with even greater satisfaction that he declared Lady Chokova’s energy had been instrumental in their easy deception of the Russians. Her late betrothed had walked out of the ark, and now that he was no more, Iggson had found her ready to brave the Flood itself to return to St Petersburg; indeed, her security at being free of one antediluvian bridegroom made her delighted to baldly deceive another; and between Lady Chokova’s veiled protestations of joy, her readiness to cede to the kindness of the Admiral who sought to save her from destruction, and Iggson’s assurances that any Russian ship bearing the Margravine’s standard would find no trouble whatsoever from the Swedish fleet — “you could say,” he concluded with a complacent look at the company — “that Talzarov was fairly outfoxed.” The Margravine did not appear ready to share her equerry’s exultation; she only sighed and hoped the Admiral would not be very angry with Lady Chokova, when his mistake became known; Iggson bowed and earnestly tried to console his lady by saying that Talzarov, being good-humoured and practically blind, was just as like to make over his affections to her friend. 

When the officers had done helping the pilot ply into that northeast wind which would carry them across the Basin, they all sat down around the Margravine. “The first act of our adventure now complete, we must now fortify ourselves for the second,” said Iggson, pulling out his brandy. As the trade between Vestervik and Wisby was lively and the Margravine well-known among the principal people there, her ladyship would have to take care to veil her face until they reached the inn — necessarily a low one, which she would be so good as to excuse, along with their addressing her as Miss Pitt, and not publicly paying those especial courtesies due to her as the Margravine of Örtö.

“Lady Tchuchinskaya, if you please, Captain,” she interposed, before he could patronise her charitable nature further. 

Iggson fell silent. His expression betrayed confusion and mortification in various measures, clearly at odds with himself to decide whether he had committed some _faux pas_. His lady quickly came to his rescue by explaining, “Happily do I consent to be Miss Pitt — but just as unhappily must I cease to be the Margravine of Örtö. I am forsaking this place; so too will I forsake any claim upon it. Let it be said, on that painful day when the King learns what I have done, that my title was not stripped from me, but that I laid it aside, until such time as I am returned to the responsibility which belongs to it. There is no Margravine any longer. There is only Rigmár Tchuchinskaya.” 

This speech — though not intended to do more than ease the lady’s conscience — produced wildly different effects among its audience. Iggson grew despondent: here was the devastation of everything! Of her standing, her regalness, her very future, which must also see him lowered in this wretched world. Fox stared at her with an admixture of awe and astonishment, certain he knew nobody in his acquaintance capable of such noble abnegation; and sensible, too, of the well-bred kindness she shewed him in saving the correction for Iggson. And Thire felt himself ready to love such a first-rate woman, even if she had been plain and pocked. 

After some pause, Iggson gave a solemn bow, saying only, “Very well, my lady,” and retired to the stern to put away his royal things and don his coachman’s garb, without breaking out in hives (as Thire had expected him to do). 

Excepting a regular wearing which required the work of all the gentlemen, their sail from Örtö was undemanding. As the dawn matured and began to beat confidently down upon the sea, Fox had the opportunity of studying Lady Tchuchinskaya at more leisure than their sally from the castle had afforded. Of her beauty, he had not been mistaken; candlelight had not fooled him, nor had the romance of the moment influenced him to overrate the comeliness of her features. Her round face was defined by a round chin, a full brow, light eyes that were more warm than washed out, and a petite nose, somewhat pink at the tip. That it had not been mortified by frost in all these years in these latitudes — indeed, that her entire complexion retained such delicacy despite living upon an island buffeted by hyperborean winds, seemed incredible to Fox. And her fair hair, some of which tumbled in thick tresses from the silk, appeared at times to almost blush under the sun, as if she had bathed it in rose water. 

She remained poised at prow, absently petting her muff as though it were a pug. Fox had guessed the provenance of this article; but wanting it confirmed, and to shew his esteem for their mutual acquaintance, he came nearer to her and began quietly, “Madame de Naberrie is a very resourceful woman, is she not, ma’am?” 

“Indeed, she is!” agreed Lady Tchuchinskaya, warmly regarding the muff. “She managed it so expertly. The entire plan, obliquely worded in all the right places, had been secreted inside the lining. You were very aptly heralded.” 

“I am only sorry he so outran us,” said Fox. 

“Please — I will hear no more apologies on that, or any head. Captain Iggson has already confessed the sins of everybody, and explained every thing. How does Madame de Naberrie?”

“As handsomely as ever,” answered Fox. He considered how best to speak of their acquaintance, without giving offense by suggesting that he had never heard Madame mention her Swedish friend before. “Though we had not seen much of each other before I was called away.”

Lady Tchuchinskaya’s delicacy proved equal to his. “She is the most amazing correspondent,” she began. “Such a trove of conversation, without ever betraying the confidence of anybody or indulging in gossip. Padmé has the great facility of making you feel as though you are her only friend in the world. But she has such a great many.” 

How expertly she has opened the way, thought Fox, as he replied, “I’ve heard of social butterflies, but Madame de Naberrie strikes me as something between a social magpie and social albatross. May I ask how your acquaintance began?” A mutual recital of their histories with this great lady ensued, which served to give each a practicable biographical account of the other as was sufficient for the first hours of an acquaintance; and when the sun had risen high enough to make them both sluggish, their conversation came to a natural end.

The pilot’s suggestion that they sail southward into the Kalmar Strait and beat up along the coast, to avoid any appearance of having come due west from Wisby, had been accepted by all. It strengthened their guise as a gay party of day travellers, but it necessarily lengthened their crossing by a few hours; these passed almost tranquilly, if not for the anxiety attendant upon every passing vessel, upon every large sail spotted on the short horizon. Just as during their cruise around the Swedish peninsula, Thire’s spyglass never left his hand; his watchfulness and alacrity in this area almost excused his having packed only _his_ shirts and only _his_ imperfectly starched neckcloths into the trunk meant for Fox’s effects as well. This oversight had left them both short of many clean clothes and had forced some washing at sea, for Thire was obliged to share, and his narrower frame and abhorrence of bunching compounded the evil: Fox had found his friend’s shirts narrow in the shoulder and tight across the chest, and he was at pains to button the neck.

“I am not your orderly,” Thire had groused. “If you was not such an Ajax — ”

“And if you were not such a dandified fool — ”

“How came you to possess such a physique, Colonel Fox?” Iggson had interrupted, in an attempt to mediate and not to laugh. 

Had Thire not been silenced by Fox's annoyance and his own contrition, he would have waxed lyrical about his discus-throwing, stone-lobbing, wall-climbing, hand-standing, distance-running friend — how everybody knew that Fox had single-handedly pulled Aratek’s dam from a bog, and that was why the horse loved him so — how when Lord Elgin’s marbles had first come into the country, Fox had received applications from innumerable artists asking if he would be so good as to stand next to them, that his figure (if not his face) might be measured against the ancients. But Thire had sat in a pique, and so Fox — who had politely declined such a comparison, as one already confronted with the dissonance of carrying the names of men much more distinguished than himself — had only been able to return Iggson’s effort at reconciliation with, “Boredom, native inclination, and the want of money. The same reasons anybody does anything.” 

It was this to specimen of mankind that Rigmár clung closely when they finally disembarked at Vestervik, with her eyes downcast and her chiffonet unwrapped to partly veil her face. They bid farewell to the pilot, and a Mr Tyllegarn attempted to take rooms for a party of Pitts at a middling inn situated at the edge of town. But as Swedes have an absolute abhorrence of home in summertime and must needs be someplace else, preferably near water, he could only bespeak a single room with a single bed. Had it berths for all of them, it would not have signified: the room must be Lady Tchuchinskaya’s, and Rigmár took it reluctantly, comfortable in body but not in mind, and she ate a very indifferent meal alone. While Jere went shopping for a chaise, provisions, and news, with Lieutenant Thire accompanying him in the role of harassed and underwhelmed tourist, Colonel Fox remained behind with her. 

“Will you not at least have the pillow?” Rigmár implored, when the Colonel had lodged himself in a chair outside her room. He was not inclined to accept, so she dropt it into his lap and closed the door upon his stubborn gallantry. She had no cause to regret her charity: despite the poor quality of the bed, the journey had so fatigued her that she fell asleep almost immediately, with no energy left to be wretched for herself or for Onya, to be worried about Wisby, to wonder about the fate of her birds, or to be overwrought by the appealing qualities of the gentleman so capably guarding her door; and sometime later, at the sound of a knock, Rigmár rose from the thin mattress in the same attitude in which had laid down upon it, to find that she had slept until twilight. 

It was Colonel Fox, asking if she would like supper and to see the vehicle Captain Iggson had secured. With Lieutenant Thire to lend some credibility, Jere’s enquiries had been somewhat fruitful, though not necessarily encouraging: General Piel remained in Stockholm and British troops had not been anywhere landed. “We will leave first thing in the morning, ma'am,” Colonel Fox informed her as they descended the stairs towards the yard. There Lieutenant Thire greeted them comically from the box of a small, blue, two-person chaise with very wide wheels and a very narrow interior. It was plain Colonel Fox was the furthest thing from impressed. “We should have remained in the dogger,” said he.

“Well, what other sort of carriage do you want? A cabriolet that will invite rain? A _chäskärra_?” cried Jere, gesturing contemptuously at a nearby cart which boasted leather straps for seats. “ _That_ rational conveyance? If we wait for your barouche, we shall die of decrepitude.” Rigmár laid a hand on his arm, the only entreaty she dared make with the stablehands about; and composing himself, Jere continued: “This one is strong made, and in very good order compared to the frights I was pressed to purchase.”

“I warned you he wouldn’t like it,” remarked Thire. “It is very high slung.” 

“The springs are poor,” observed Fox. 

“The wheel-rims are not soldered,” added Thire. 

“Oh, and a sword box on the rear — _very_ sensible,” bemoaned Fox. 

“It has a roof and a drag chain,” declared Jere, with some exasperation. “Adam would not have wept to leave Eden.” 

“Yes, in this very chaise, I should imagine,” replied Fox. “It is respectable for its age alone.”

Jere sniffed. “Well, we have never professed excellence in the carriage-building trade.” 

“Wait till you see the horses, brother,” prompted Thire, with an impish grin. 

Colonel Fox did not want to see the horses; he could do _anything_ but see the horses; and when he had exerted himself to do so, he certainly would _not_ use them. But they had to be used: they would find none better, the forebud had been despatched, and they would be expected in Grönhult at eleven o’clock the following morning. They could brook no further delay. The entire outfit required only the blessing of Lady Tchuchinskaya to be declared acceptable, and she gave it without objection, not needing or chusing to speak, though privately she had to agree with Colonel Fox: they would be most uncomfortably born for lack of cushions; there were stains on the upholstery she did not like; and the pale, peeling blue paint was obviously a superficial attempt at concealing mouldy wood. However, Rigmár's was not a complaining character, and she could not imagine it would be such a hardship to travel so intimately with a gentleman determined to do everything in his power to increase her comfort. 

Colonel Fox began this office that night by being miserably self-conscious as he intruded upon Lady Tchucinskaya’s room and rest for ten minutes, that he might temporarily remove her washstand into the hall to shave; and on the next morning by being painfully solicitous about his limbs, for it was necessary to keep them at strict right angles, that he not impinge upon his companion’s portion of this rolling box pew. The muff was obliged to do all the work of a chaperone in preserving decency between the occupants as they trundled anxiously out of Vestervik. Now that the party were alone, Thire, who rode alongside, had gotten it into his head to practice his Swedish upon a very tolerant Lady Tchuchinskaya, that he might make appropriate greetings to anybody they passed along the road (and, Fox suspected, make overtures to farmers’ daughters). This left Fox at liberty to survey the landscape. The country they entered was pocked by lakes, which revealed themselves only in bursts of sapphire through the trees, and by the slight incline of the carriage, he had the sensation of eternally climbing into their northwest heading.

They were not halfway to the first post when it was agreed Thire should swap his saddle for the coach-box, that he might begin that instruction which would enable him to drive when Iggson tired; this tuition rapidly descended into a bickering about the correct means of managing horses which had no mouths, but must be guided by odd sounds particular to this country and its language. Fox noticed his companion trying not to laugh, and he found her genuine smile quite wonderful to behold. Soon, however, the sibilant sounds and oaths exchanged between the gentleman outside became tiresome, prompting Lady Tchuchinskaya to raise her window. Fox obliged her by doing the same. And the chaise grew awkwardly intimate, indeed. 

As what passed between them now would set the tone for the remainder of the journey, which must take three full days, Fox sat in some perplexity about how to proceed. Would she prefer to continue in silence? Did she wish to play mute the entire way? Indeed, could anything he had to say improve upon the quietude of a summer’s drive, or the agreeable clopping of hooves upon decent road? A fund of conversation, Fox did not have. Of silent opinions and strong understanding, yes — but ill-use made him dumb, and the exertion required to speak rationally on things when rationality was not in vogue nor considered much fun, he had often found better spent elsewhere. Questions he had, too: a great relish to know more of her, to hear a true account of her life, rather than the multitude of secondhand reports which had been supplied him; but he had a horror of impertinent scrutiny, and did not wish to overbear her more than his legs were already succeeding in doing. 

But as Lady Tchuchinskaya sat with an openness of manner that did not suggest a disinclination for conversation, and as Fox would rather momentarily embarrass himself than be considered uncivil, he cast about for a subject that was as safe as it was casual, and not at all the result of intense study. “The roads in this country are very good,” he finally observed. 

“Yes, the peasants are assiduous in clearing and repairing them,” returned the lady. 

“We will not be stopped at turnpikes, then?” 

“No, it is all managed by the landholders, under strict penalty. I believe Swedish roads brook no comparison to those in any country — excepting England, perhaps.” 

“I should say they more than equal. Have you travelled extensively, ma’am?”

“Oh no, I have only generally heard it said so — but I can declare them superior to anything in Russia. Timber roads which leave you racked to the bone are very much the thing there. One reaches the end of any long journey feeling some inches shorter than when one began it.” 

Fox could not help smiling, to imagine she had been diminished by a decade upon Russian roads; but he composed himself, and, reassured that she could speak of that country without apparent pain, ventured to ask: “May I ask your ladyship’s feelings on Russia’s new alliances?”

“I think it a great shame,” answered she, sighing. “I have so many friends in St Petersburg, and I can’t but believe Sweden and Russia might be the strongest of friends, too, if they could overlook Finland. At any rate, the Tsar is a remarkable man, and my prayers go with him. I look forward to introducing you, in better times.” 

This was said with such unaffected sincerity, that Fox was too stunned to speak more than the simplest gratitude; and he found himself wondering at her expectation of his having any qualities which might commend him to a Tsar, until the opportunity of continuing the subject had passed altogether, and the chaise fell again into silence — albeit, this one more comfortable than the first. 

While the roads retained Fox’s approbation, the grounds surrounding them had been left to all the ravages of the thaw. Upon every occasion for stopping, when the company were obliged to quit the well-maintained track, Lady Tchuchinskaya’s insistence upon carrying her galoches became apparent; she always returned to the chaise holding her hem high above her muddied feet, but thoroughly delighted with wildflowers she had collected. And speedy was Fox’s assumption of the post of footman, helping to remove her overboots as he handed her into the carriage, before scraping his own soles upon the wheels, that he might not muddy her skirts. 

The horses of this country were indeed quite small, and they did not grow along the way. Upon changing them, Thire was even worse mounted than before, and Fox feared that if he were forced to ride one, he would have to jump as well as the horse. Though reluctant to criticise anything about her native land, he could not help observing to Lady Tchuchinskaya: “As narrow as this vehicle is, I would not want to exchange places with Thire” — then, not wishing to hint that he meant his preference for her company (though it was very material consideration), he quickly added, “That beast is very straight-legged.”

“You are a cavalryman. Everything is like to be a disappointment.” 

Fox turned to her, affecting to be affronted. “On the contrary, ma’am! I was much impressed with your pony.”

“Why, that is because it was of that hardy, peerless breed native to Örtö. And I can only pray we find none of _them_ here. I have long objected them being exported from the island, for they are often sold to the mines in Uppsala.”

“Have you met with any success?” 

“My petitions to the Diet have had some effect ... mostly to anger the nobles with mining interests. I am excessively attached to those ponies — but perhaps I speak selfishly. I have never found more perfect mounts, and they add much character to the countryside.” 

“I do not think you do. It is a sorry thing to see horses worked underground. I should also be loath to see any that I loved suffer such a fate.” 

“You must have a great many.” 

Fox hesitated, aware that this was a point of no small amount of pride, and the only one upon which he was apt to talk tediously. “Only one, ma’am.”

“Oh? I’m sure it will be no great trial for you to describe them,” said she, with an arch, knowing smile.

“He is a warmblood, about seventeen hands, rather a coppery grey in colour. Aratek is his name,” offered Fox, thinking to stop there. But her ladyship would not be pleased until she had learned that Aratek also possessed four even socks; that he was not docked; that he preferred ginger snaps to shortbread; that he had not yet covered; that he had never met an obstacle he could not jump; and that he had once carried Fox eighty miles in a day; in short, his entire history from foaldom, until she had fully gratified her curiosity and Fox’s pride. 

“He sounds altogether a most worthy animal,” declared Lady Tchuchinskaya. “I should despair of ever finding his equal. But will I be able to count upon your advice and services, to procure such a mount as might suit me in England?”

Fox found himself delighted at being deputized over Iggson — or indeed, over Madame de Naberrie, whose stables must be known to her — and to hear Lady Tchuchinskaya speak of their continued acquaintance as fact. He acknowledged himself most ready to discharge this responsibility; and privately, he reckoned that while Aratek was not quite calculated to carry a woman singly, he would perfectly tolerate such a slight addition behind his master, should the occasion ever impossibly arise.

At the next post-house, the company supped in some silence. Iggson had found the forebud dead drunk, and could not vent his ire in any proportion consummate to its degree, lest he make himself and his mistress too memorable; and when handed the register they were required to falsely sign at each stage — _Name, Character, Whence from, Whither goeth, No. of Horses, & Complaints_ — only Lady Tchuchinskaya’s looking daggers at him prevented his leaving a screed against the passive and overindulgent post-master, which must prompt the district official to punish a poor man whom they were never to see again. 

The pleasantness of their journey towards Intagorp, where they would pass the night, however, balmed the tempers of all. They met so few travellers upon the road, and none which gave them any alarm, and everything was in such a comely flush of midsummer verdure. The turf roofs of the little red cottages were in bloom, and even the odd boor looking up from his flask among the rye was somewhat charming. Fox fancied himself in a more ancient England. Bowers of trees covered the narrow road at intervals, forming a deciduous arcade; and frequently there was no underbrush save thickets of juniper, and it was easy to peer through the trunks and imagine all number of sylvans dancing doused in gin. The beauty of the country was so natural, and so naturally thrown about, that a Brown or Repton would have found no work. And when the views without the chaise ceased to stir his romantic sensibilities, Fox had only to look upon the lady at his right, who had succumbed in her admirable struggle against sleep, and had pillowed her pretty head upon the muff.

Upon seeing the post-house in which they were to pass the night, however, it seemed to Fox a crime to remove Lady Tchuchinskaya from her present tranquility. Of homeliness and cheer, which might be met with in any average English inn, it had none; of hospitality still less, though their meal hit Fox square in the face upon entering. He had not anticipated the rounds of hard cakes hanging from the ceiling, nor that bread could be so black and sour. And after being told there were no such accommodations as those belonging to this hovel in all the district, perhaps all of Småland, it was with some surprise that the party were shewn into a single room with sheetless beds arranged in tiers; other rooms there were none, and Iggson was at pains to explain that they were to consider themselves lucky, for they were not obliged to stay in the same room as the family. 

“I have no notion of such communal quartering,” said Fox in a low voice, though he did not much reckon upon the post-master’s command of languages, — “and if they suppose it any less an evil for us to sleep thus with a lady in our company, I am not certain I trust the character of this place.” 

With a sheepish glance at Lady Tchuchinskaya, Iggson said, “He invites your sister to sleep with his wife and children.”

Fox, observing the horror upon that lady’s face, and warmly sensible of her hold tightening upon his arm, answered an immediate and definitive negative. Thire, saddlesore and seeing how this negociation would end, quickly bade them all a goodnight and declared he would again be in the carriage. Iggson, donating his garrick cloak for bedding and bespeaking more brandy for himself, took himself to the barn. And Lady Tchuchinskaya, pressing a strand of pearls into Fox’s palm and quietly begging he make it over to the post-master, that his family might be made more easy and their home more hospitable for future travellers, laid down upon the cot without undressing. 

Thus Fox passed a second night outside this lady’s room; and the unforgiving floor on which he found himself oppressed his repose less than those shameful feelings which every favourable impression of her upon his mind and body seemed to heighten by the hour.


	5. Chapter 5

(Lord Palpatine to Lord Tarkin)  
_Bane House, 29 May 1808. Most secret & confidential._ — . . . _in re_ the Swedish expedition, — I foresee you making objections to our policy of supplying troops and subsidies. That Sweden must eventually embarrass herself militarily for our general purposes remains undisputed; but publickly, it would be judged very strange indeed to neglect our last ally in those parts, and risk the ire of the City at any apparent disregard of the security to Baltic trade. In addition, the time for our favourite is not ripe; while he remains _de facto generalissimo_ of Denmark, the officer class of Sweden will never accept him, however hungry they are for Norway; and the nobles are not yet of one mind to act upon anything, — tho’ the cancerous tyranny of the King is lately extremely felt in the treatment towards his cousin, whom we have been obliged to bring out of an awkward situation on Örtö by the entreaty of H.M. and the acuity of Mme Naberrie. She disclosed herself to be sensible of P—’s interest in Sweden, and it was deemed prudent to bend to her scheming, rather than open ourselves up to suspicion thru indifference. To that end, we contrived to send that Foxite bastard in the Guards. He has a goodly neck upon which might be hung the whole disgrace of failure; but he is like as not to make a good shew of it and destroy himself in the attempt, in which case we may safely be rid of him, — or he will succeed, and gain not an ounce of publick honour by it, whilst perfectly preserving our own aims.

  
  
The party survived the night, and their second day upon the road dawned as early and as clement as the one before it. The scenery had become less varied, simply trees upon trees; and after a breakfast of bread which had to be softened in brandy, and salted provisions which he had swallowed whole and not wished his mouth to digest, it was Fox’s turn to be lulled to sleep by the rocking of the carriage. On waking, he was mortified to discover that his limbs had betrayed him and encroached upon Lady Tchuchinskaya’s, and that one of his spurs had ensnared itself in her skirt. She was not mindful of it, having fallen asleep also; but his present attitude was uncomfortable, and to adjust his seat might further damage her garment. 

“Ma’am,” said Fox, with gentle touches to her arm until she started awake. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but my spur — I have gotten stupidly tangled. If you will permit me?” said he, indicating at their feet.

“By all means,” replied the lady. “You must be quite practiced at managing skirts.” Fox felt a rush of heat upon his face as he bent down, before she became sensible of having misspoke and continued above him, “I mean to say, Captain Iggson tells me you are in the King’s service. Are their Majesties’ drawing-rooms really so very crowded?

“To suffocation, ma’am. Such heat, and such a bursting of gowns and a thicket of pins, which tear and needle everything.” 

“Heavens. I must fortify myself, then.” 

“And wear the tallest feathers you can find.” Though Fox quietly doubted any fowl on earth could supply plumage long enough to signal her in a throng. 

“Why?”

“So I don’t lose — .... so that your ladyship isn’t lost in the crush,” replied he, feeling foolish, and fearing he had offended her to suggest that she might be overlooked. “There — forgive me, ma’am,” said he, straightening up again. 

Lady Tchuchinskaya smiled benignly and returned to the bunches of wildflowers in her lap, which she was deftly weaving into a sort of small wreath. “Perhaps I do not mean to wear feathers,” said she — then, with more gravity, “Perhaps I will not be seen at Court at all.” 

“How can you think so, ma'am?” cried Fox. “When the Queen herself insisted upon your ladyship’s rescue?”

“It is all to be such a great secret, is it not? I can drop titles, but I cannot drop my face or my accent. No, I will be — oh! but do not think me ungrateful!” Here, she laid a hand upon his arm. “But I will not be permitted to — ” again she stopt herself abruptly, and was for a few moments silent, picking through her flowers and discarding inferior ones out the open window. Then, forcing cheerfulness, she said, “At any rate, I am no stranger to confined society. Örtö is no mecca, and I found happiness enough there.”

Fox recollected Iggson’s bemoaning that place. “Outside your ladyship and Lady Chokova, Captain Iggson did not rate its claims highly,” said he, gently. 

“Wisby _is_ rather starved for grand galas, which Jere delights in. And he would not exert himself to enjoy the simpler charms of its people. He was always advising me to issue decrees against such a custom or such a practice — whatever offended his sensibilities. God in heaven! he’d cry, there is _another_ bride in a window! Were you only to resurrect the pillory, madam, we might save the blushes of every maid and decent person in this town!” said she, affecting Iggson’s plummy voice. “But of course, very nearly all the inhabitants are formed from Örtö’s limestone, and to limestone they shall return, and to impose so upon them, when they are already taxed for my presence, would be monstrous.” 

Fox had not yet heard Lady Tchuchinskaya speak so freely upon anything and was delighted with her playfulness. He wished to see it continued. “Brides in windows?” he prompted. 

“Oh! It is the most singular thing — but not the most delicate ... ”

“Your ladyship need not spare my sensibilities,” said Fox smilingly. 

“Well … ” she began, slowly, speaking more to her flowers than to him, “It is usual for a bride to appear at the window of her nuptial room, where she receives the goodwill of her neighbours, and whomever might be passing. It does not signify if she is wed at church or at home — howsoever genteel she be, she is obliged to stand there in her wedding clothes, sometimes for hours, — and, I must imagine, trying very hard not to catch a frill or piece of lace in the candles placed there to illuminate her for general inspection.” 

“And if she does not consent to this?” asked Fox, incredulous, and wondering, too, at any husband who could submit to such impertinence. 

“The people make such a commotion outside the window, as must spoil all possible — ... well, they make a great deal of noise.” 

“How does the mob know which window to abuse?” Spare London the day, thought Fox, when its general population adopted such a tradition. The city would be totally uninhabitable for lovers. Stones would be thrown if the lady were judged a fright, or if she did not acquiesce in singing and dancing for their entertainment also; and the Worshipful Company of Glaziers would vehemently (and probably successfully) lobby against all measures to outlaw the practice. 

“I am aware that Swedes are in general given credit for a curiosity bordering upon impertinence, but Örtöiters take this to an extreme,” answered his companion. 

“I’m surprized the bridegrooms are exempt.” 

“Oh, they are not,” said Lady Tchuchinskaya, sniffing. “They are simply cowardly, and do not take the trouble to make themselves agreeable.” 

Fox cogitated on this subject and its antecedents long after it had been left behind — on native customs — the island’s Geatish history — savage but communal societies — the plasticity of Christianity — its manifold failings — until he had somehow thought himself round a circle; he had begun to speculate on the courage necessary to stand up next to Lady Tchuchinskaya before a crowd, but stopt himself before he could admit any such desires into his head.

Jankoping marked the halfway point of journey; but while the party felt keenly the lure of more urban comforts, Iggson insisted they give the lakeside town a generous berth. An Englishman could not be expected to arrive in a place even so large as Stockholm without the greater part of the city becoming aware; _two_ such curiosities and a young lady — who looked as much their sister as if she had been stolen from a nunnery — would excite every critical eye in a place like this. Captain and Miss Pitt, therefore, sat silently at an indifferent inn, while Mr Tyllegarn and Lieutenant Pitt rode into town to engage the services of a new forebud, purchase a better saddle for Thire, and make subtle enquiries about the status of General Piel’s mission to the King. 

Their report was not reassuring. The stalemate in the capital appeared to be ongoing, and couriers from Gottenburg understood the British force was soon to depart, perhaps imminently. Tradesmen were even balking at English money. “We should leave immediately,” advised Thire. “We shall look very foolish and suspect, two cavalry officers gone out for a lark, only to be left behind.” 

“We will get nowhere fast without those wheels being greased,” countered Iggson. 

As this intelligence had taken the better part of four hours to acquire, and the prospect of sleeping in another offensive post-house at Gullered was disagreeable, it was decided they would take a longer rest here and allow the chaise to be serviced, before completing the remaining hundred miles in one great dash on the morrow; — or at least, arriving as near as possible to Gottenburg before St John’s Day advanced sufficiently to render all the country folk idle and all the roads crowded. And though there were rooms aplenty at this inn; though Lady Tchuchinskaya made him promise to sleep in a bed; though Iggson and Thire both offered to keep vigil outside the lady’s room, Fox still crept downstairs to fetch a chair. 

Their drive out of Jankoping promised to be much the same as their drive into it: forested, unvarying, and warm. And they made good time, even regularly exceeding the speed set down by law (one Swedish mile per hour, which was either six or seven English, depending on which Swede one asked), progressing untroubled by man or beast. Indeed, of the latter, they only encountered the odd fox eating foul upon the road.

“They are most uncautious,” observed Lieutenant Thire, whistling at one which had returned to its meal during one of their stoppages. “If a man had a proper piece, he might do some damage. Though what one would want with such a scraggy, sh— ... smelly creature, I don’t know.” 

“They have not so much food here in the winter,” said Jere, “and fall into nasty habits.” 

“Are there foxes on Örtö, ma’am?” enquired Thire. 

Rigmár, who was being helped into carriage by Colonel Fox, answered directly, “No, and I am glad of it: they would prey abominably upon the birds.” And upon sitting down, she remarked Thire looking significantly at his friend, evidently with an aim to teaze.

“You would not enjoy Örtö either, Colonel Fox,” declared Jere. “Nothing for an Englishman to shoot but ugly geese and pitiful ducks and fat, stupid seals.” 

Colonel Fox situated himself inside the carriage and replied absently, “They would have nothing to fear from me. I don’t sport in that direction.” 

“Fox landed one perfect shot and never wishes to try again. Haha!” laughed Thire, mounting his horse. 

The effect this comment had upon the Colonel was lost to Thire, who had become distracted in chivvying his mount, but it did not evade the notice of Rigmár. She observed Fox’s face colour with confusion, his discomfiture of mind evident in the tightening of his features, before he occupied himself in staring out his window and ceased to acknowledge her. The chaise jolted forward, and with every second’s progress, Rigmár felt the opportunity of broaching the subject — indeed, of saying _anything_ , fast dwindling. As they progressed in this heavy silence, she wondered if Fox’s spirits might not be improved by a ride; he had seemed to appraise Thire’s horse with some interest, and such an active gentleman as Fox was, he was certain to be itching under the constant confinement of a compact chaise. For her to abruptly suggest the exchange and intimate a sudden wish for Thire’s confidence, however, must likely embarrass Fox farther; he would infer her motives at once, and most probably resent it, for his dejection had certainly sprung from his friend’s remark, the import of which Rigmár could not help meditating upon. Whatever its meaning, it must have been privately very unhappy for Fox, and her heart reached out to him in pity. And though many times Rigmár was on the point of suggesting, somewhat obliquely, that he might enjoy some exercise, she found discretion the better part of valour, and did not presume to so well know his character.

As day clouded over, the party’s circumstances worsened also. They had just departed their second post of the day when an axle broke, and they were obliged to return to the smattering of mean cottages that called itself a village. The delay improved nobody's humour, and only worsened that of Colonel Fox. Nobody spoke, for anxiety and disinclination, as they waited for the only blacksmith in central Sweden to be found, supping on cold veal washed down with overly sweetened brandy, with Fox disappearing by himself for long stretches at a time. Once the chaise was mended, the driving then became more furious, Lieutenant Thire having formed his mouth to those foreign sounds at last, and neither he nor Jere becoming in the least complacent the nearer they came to their destination; but the country became more hilly, and the drag chain had frequently to be employed, which gave a punctuated character to their progress. 

When nearly half a day had passed with no more exchange of words than what was necessary upon alighting, entering, and stopping the chaise, Rigmár resolved to make Fox cheerful again. If the philosophical set of his countenance was pleasing, his smile was unparalleled. And it must be acknowledged that a young lady, however high-born or devoutly bent, who does not find herself prone to some indiscretions after spending three days closeted with a gentleman of no mean parts, must be very singular indeed, and probably undeserving of the pleasure — or the privilege of having her story put to paper. 

And so, determined to take an active part in her _own_ happiness by increasing that of Colonel Fox, Rigmár contrived how best to effect this. He was in that moment lounging somewhat pensively, his arms crossed over himself in such a way that the gold ring on his left hand fell within her reach and observation. “Your ring is very handsome,” said she, suddenly, taken with an idea. “May I see it?” But before Fox could remove it for her inspection, she gamely took his hand with both of her own, and examined it with deliberate scrutiny, hardly knowing what she sought, beyond her own composure. “I don’t suppose you stamp Aratek’s biscuits with this?” she teazed, once she had found it. 

Fox eyed her curiously, but not coldly. “Your ladyship will find me very stupid today, and will have to explain.” 

Rigmár found nothing except that she did not much care to be a ladyship in that moment, but she pressed on: “There is such an abundance of old trinkets on Örtö, from the island’s heyday, you know — seals and fobs and coins and like, that may be found everywhere in the ground. Most folk think nothing of these curiosities; but for some reason or other I could never divine, no baker or country wife ever thinks their butter or gingerbread or cakes fit to be seen or sold without some ancient baron’s seal of approval.”

Fox’s expression softened. “I cannot say I have ever thought to let my housekeeper avail herself of it,” said he. “She is already precious proud of her cooking, with so little justification, that to ... that is to say ... ”

But Fox’s speech faltered. He found he could not persist in contradicting anything Lady Tchuchinskaya chose to fancy, when the effort of self-command was then so great — for she was holding that hand which had lately done something so offensive to her honour, it really did not bear remembering; and to not betray his worst nature by an alteration in his seat demanded his entire concentration. 

“Your family’s sigil, I gather? By the canid heads?” asked the lady, blessedly coming to his aid with the introduction of a subject guaranteed to make him cool and rational again.

“Sure, the heralds were not put to much trouble by the first Fox to be ennobled.” 

“It's a name I sometimes heard mentioned in St Petersburg,” she continued. “Is your Christian name that of a relation? It is so singular, I assumed it must be.” 

“Only very distantly. My father served in the American War and wished to make a point.” Indeed, the nearest Fox had come to his namesake was at an uncomfortable review of the Blues at Windsor, when he had stood under a grand tent captured by that gentleman during the third war against Mysore; under that same canvas had the great Tipoo’s sons been received as hostages; and as the King had shook Fox’s hand, declaring him, with that unpredictable generosity and elasticity of feeling, the only Fox worth knowing outside his father, and an uncommon swarthy fellow, Fox could not help but feel a measure of kinship with those unfortunates. 

As Fox studied his hand within this lady’s, he would not let that recollection ruin his present relief. He had been distressed all day, expecting at any moment to be solicited for an explanation of Thire’s thoughtless jest, at once convinced she had better hear the whole sorry story now, before it could be carelessly related to her in London; and in the next, certain the subject had dropt from her mind, even if it had lodged most sorely in his. The chaise had reassumed its genial character, however; and though he found courage to confide in her those points of his personal history as might give her a more honest picture of his circumstances — and which she could not but be already suspicious of — Fox decided against souring it totally by the introduction of a private grief that could only distress her, and give the appearance of seeking usurious claims upon her sympathy, while reflecting most unfairly upon his maternal race. She attended _that_ revelation with no apparent disquiet, and with none of those unwelcome platitudes in praise of Fox’s father for having rescued him from some benighted state; and while he was no more inclined to consider his past actions without horror, Fox was encouraged to consider that Lady Tchuchinskaya might have the goodness not to attribute them to his origins, and might look upon the likeness of his mother (which she sincerely expressed herself eager to do) with all the respect Fox felt was due her, as the font of anything that was truly noble in himself. 

They might have driven straight through the night at little risk to their safety, for the darkness was half-hearted, and Thire had learned to wield the drag chain like a Samson; but at Alingsas they found the evil of their earlier delay realized: the horses which had been gathered and kept waiting for them had been finally dispersed. To effect their immediate return just before midnight — and that, the midnight before a feast day! — was more than the post-master could be prevailed upon to do, however abusive this pompous coachman chose to be; and the party was forced to halt thirty miles outside Gottenburg. This was turned to some advantage by the generous bowl of strawberries provided by the post-master’s kindly wife, and the comfortable, almost clean room, which Lady Tchuchinskaya was shewn to, and which communicated with the plain parlour the gentlemen had parked themselves in for the night; they helped themselves to what simple victuals might be had, though they were most appreciative of the substitution of salted salmon for salted herring, and Fox and Thire jointly rejoiced to find that they had returned to a district in which porter was known. By this point in their odyssey, Iggson had well exhausted his limited fund of fraternal feeling, and had no qualms about lying down on the farthest bench and covering himself with his cloak to leave the English officers to their own company and drink. 

Fox had just stretched out upon a bench himself, feeling at liberty to be only within leaping distance of Lady Tchuchinskaya’s door since he had companions, when Thire spoke in a very hushed voice from his spot on the floor directly beside him: 

“I fear I gave you no small amount of pain, Fox, by a comment I made earlier upon the road. Believe me, it was not by design, and I am heartily sorry.”

Fox was extremely moved to hear said what had become plainly written over Thire’s face over the course of the day; he knew his friend had felt his error the more because Lady Tchuchinskaya had unfortunately been witness, and he had no easy means of redressing it. “I thank you, brother, — but think no more of it. You may be sure I don’t.” 

“I worried I had occasioned some unhappy speculation of your character in Lady Tchuchinskaya.”

“She is a woman of remarkable penetration, of which she only ever betrays less than half; but she is also considerate. She did not pry, — indeed,” said Fox, smiling slightly to himself, “I believe it only worked to better our acquaintance.” 

“I am glad of it! For she is such a woman, that if you don’t marry her, I will,” declared Thire — and Fox, too exhausted to check his own amusement, lost all composure. “You may laugh if you chuse! But hear me out: if we sell our commissions and pool the funds, I fancy there might be just enough for one of us to secure the hand of an exiled marchioness.”

“Her little finger, maybe.” 

“Capital! My fourth favourite feature of womankind.”

“And setting aside the lady — _any_ lady,” said Fox, when he had caught his breath again, “What should either of us do without a commission? A husband is not a profession, nor an office generally recommended for its opportunities of thrift.”

“Why, live upon your talents, of course! Enlist Stone and incorporate ourselves.”

“A happy notion, if one had no fondness for the society of one’s wife — or indeed, no regard for the society she must keep. And I could not so easily dispense with my duty to my King, or my responsibility to the regiment; without those, I should feel even less worthy of a wife. There would be no advantage to either side.”

“Oh, I can think of one lady who perceives an advantage _most_ materially,” countered Thire, before Fox ordered him to stop talking nonsense when people were trying to sleep — which, however, Fox found he could not do, combatting as he was such impossibilities from taking the shape of hope in his mind.

On the next morning, which had promised the rapid conclusion of their relay, Fox once again found himself in possession of much more than Lady Tchuchinskaya’s little finger. It was not a felicitous occasion.

The horses, when they had been finally retrieved from the surrounding farms, proved unequal to the anticipation which had preceded them. Two were unshod and one particularly restive; even Iggson had wanted to refuse them entirely, but when the party fancied they could smell the sea, and the post-master’s wife had been proudly declared by her husband to have been formerly a maid in the Prince of Österörtö’s household, no postponement could be tolerated, and Lady Tchuchinskaya was hurriedly bundled into the chaise before she could elicit any special interest.

Accordingly, they advanced into a steep country, uncultivated, wild, and picturesque, with granite boulders flung out upon the land like so much debris from the violence of Gottenburg’s creation. They had not gone above three miles, however, when the fretful horse spied something it did not like; and at the same time, the wheels met such an unexpected declivity, that the party was plunged forward, and neither Iggson’s commands nor Thire’s abilities could halt their precipitous advance; only the upsetting of the carriage brought them to a sudden, violent halt. Windows were shattered. Springs broken. Spokes splintered. Axles ruined. Horses maimed. 

Here was an unhappy development! 

Indeed, the only luck the occupants could perceive in such a moment, was that which had pitched the vehicle upon Colonel Fox’s side, tumbling Lady Tchuchinskaya into the protection of his arms, rather than throwing him forcefully, perhaps injuriously, upon her. They were unhurt. Nothing broken but their countenances, each suffusing with a furious blush, and Fox’s hand, which he cut upon some glass when righting himself. The commotion outside — the pitiful cries of the horses and a great number of oaths — urged Fox to speedily make a vertical exit out of the upturned door, that he might extricate himself and the lady. 

Thire was the principal casualty. He had been thrown clear of the carriage, only to hit his head and be trampled on by his panicked horse, which he had been in the habit of securing to the chaise whenever he was obliged to play footman. Iggson, too, had been roughed up in the fall; but he was at least upright, and having removed the animal, was now engaged in cutting free the others. Here, Fox’s strength succumbed; he could only hand Iggson his pistol, look away, and plaintively urge Lady Tchuchinskaya to do the same. 

She was engaged in her own trial, tending to Thire’s wounded head upon her lap. “Tell me, my lady, is it so very bad?” asked he. “Will I be a horror to stand up with?”

“Not at all,” she answered with a trembling smile. “Scars are very becoming. You are sure to wear yours well.” 

Thire’s breeches were torn in places and his face monstrously gnarled upon the left side; but it was the ugly swelling of his knee and the uselessness of his ankle which prevented him from standing. This threw the company into some debate about what ought to be done, when they possessed only two saddles and two fit horses between them. Thire insisted that he be left behind — some peasant or other, some passing traveller would surely be Samaritan enough to assist; Fox protested that this was out of the question — how should he look, a lone English officer unable to explain his circumstances? 

“I was set upon by highwaymen,” offered Thire. “What’s the word for highwaymen, ma’am?”

“There are no such marauders in Sweden,” answered Iggson, with some pique. “Besides, such a fabrication would discombobulate this entire district and invite too much investigation.”

“And I _refuse_ to leave Lieutenant Thire friendless in this way,” declared Lady Tchuchinskaya, who really was uneasy by the amount of blood she was trying to staunch. “Captain Iggson, you will return to Alingsas at once and and fetch a cart and a doctor.” 

Though appreciative of the selfless concern which did her much credit, Fox could not agree. “No, ma’am; we have already occasioned too much delay,” said he, increasingly apprehensive of the risk of discovery they took by remaining so exposed. “Iggson, I must leave Thire to your charge” — and then, feeling an unusual responsibility to jolly them all along, turning to his friend: “I dare say, Fred, even in this state, you will only fall with your horse, and not off it?” 

“To be sure! — I am guardsman.”

“Good man. Lady Tchuchinskaya and I will ride straight to Gottenburg — unless your ladyship objects?”

The lady could not: she conceded that the arrangement was as agreeable as such a desperate separation could be. She had only to stipulate that her muff and flowers be retrieved from the sad wreck of the carriage, that Fox stop demurring about having his hand wrapped, and that the farmers be fully compensated for the destruction of their horses. Thus, riding double on a poor beast that could bear no comparison with Aratek, Colonel Fox and Lady Tchuchinskaya made hard for the coast, and the ships they desperately hoped remained there. 

The road became more and more busy with every mile, but they were not much minded. The countryside frolicked in a midsummer mirth on that bright day, preparing for an extended evening of celebrations. The gentleman looked very dashing in his brilliant coat and hat cocked at a chic angle against the wind, and his little lady wore silk and flowers in her hair; despite the nag that carried them meanly, their fine appearance formed part of the celebrations. 

At the sight of any equipage bearing towards them, Fox veered hard into the forest, where they rested in the cool shade of the towering bowers, until the waggon or cart or occasional chaise had long passed, and their mount might be spurned into another fierce dash. For some hours they rode, and even had it not been the longest day of the year, it was beginning to feel like the longest day of Fox’s life. Yesterday’s clouds were missed as the sun gloried in its power to put Fox in as much of a muck sweat as the horse, with Lady Tchuchinskaya tightly pressed against him. He was conscious, however, that whatever discomfort he suffered by the ride, hers was sure to be worse, situated as she was upon the cantle and made to endure every jolt without stirrups. 

“Are you sure you don’t wish to rest five minutes more?” Fox enquired of her, when they had taken precautionary refuge in a coppice. 

“I am sure,” replied she. “I am also sure we must leave this horse. It is in a very sad way.” 

This agreed with Fox’s feelings, for it was an awful thing to blow out a horse (even one that had nearly killed Thire), and he had been sensible of its worsening gait and laboured breath this past hour. But equally did the prospect of every tide taking the last of the British boats from Gottenburg's harbour at some declaration of hostilities — or worse, their being accosted by officials on the road — weigh heavily on his mind. “We have at least six miles to travel, ma’am.” 

Lady Tchuchinskaya sighed, but stood and said decisively, “It could be twenty, and still I would insist. I won’t see this horse killed on my account.”

What decent man could withstand such compassion? Such dogged nobility of spirit, crowned in fetching flowers? Colonel Fox could not. Releasing the winded nag from its trappings and setting it free, then, they started out properly abreast upon the road to Gottenburg, with Fox at pains not to outpace her and leave a noblewoman in his wake. Breakfast was many hours behind them now, and though she strove for speed under her own power, Fox was eventually obliged to slow down, offer her his arm, and carry her muff. 

He had expected to find the Margravine’s appearance fine and her manner finer still — anxious, overdelicate, prone to offense and nervous complaints. In five days of arduous travel, however, Fox had found no such thing in Lady Tchuchinskaya. Never a complaint, never a cross word crossed her lips, except to admonish Iggson to shew more consideration to his fellow creatures. And though she was wilting a little now in the summer sun, however diligently Fox tried to guide them under the shade, she remained cheerful, speaking unaffectedly about anything of interest and pointing out objects which amused her. Between such companions — one determined to take any trouble to help the other, and the other determined to be no trouble at all — and on such a fine, joyful day, the trek passed more effortlessly than it might have otherwise; and by evening they had reached the heights surrounding Gottenburg. Its fortifications had not the integrity of Wisby’s, being tumbled down and excavated in most places; but its earthen-works, watery moat, bold spires, and forest of masts in the harbour beyond made a strong impression. It was both picturesque and intimidating; and the noise of the mounting merry-making, gathered upwards by the great amphitheatre of rock, testified to every inhabitant being actively about. 

As they descended into the faubourg, Lady Tchuchinskaya spoke with some hesitation: “We shall have to adopt different parts, I think, to gain entrance into the town.”

“I still have our passports. Won’t they serve?” asked Fox. 

She made a look of some apology. “I have seen them ... they are very bad. They might satisfy a provincial official, but they will only prompt impertinent questions here. No, I think we will do better to avoid all names.”

“Very well,” said he, eager to hear what she proposed. 

“No declaration of war — if, indeed, it has come to that — will see the town cleared of its English population in a day. If you will but remove your coat and hat, and affect a kind of jaunty, officious drunkenness, you may be any Englishman.” Fox was amused at this judgement of national character, but made no objection, and Lady Tchuchinskaya continued: “And if I cease to be your mute sister, but behave instead in a common, licentious manner, I may be any — ... well, I shan’t be regarded at all.” 

This was a suggestion! But Fox had almost learnt not to be surprized by this lady’s pragmatical ingenuity; and struck by what appeared an ersatz Vauxhall spread out along a section of the moat, he ventured to add: “If we approach a gate from the direction of that pleasure garden, it may help to sell our ruse.” 

They altered their course slightly, pausing once that Fox might turn his coat sleeves inside-out and render himself painfully casual in one of Thire's humiliating shirts; and that Lady Tchuchinskaya might let down her hair from its dressing, remove her capelet, and perform some sorcery which saw her hem raised a goodly number of inches. “You will excuse me, Colonel Fox,” said she, before reaching up to muss his hair and shoulders with bits of hedge and dirt — a treatment she also applied to her own knees and backside! — “We must look like we’ve been tumbling about.” 

Fox did not have to pretend intoxication; a type of it came naturally to him after this transformation, with the Lady Tchuchinskaya dangling so upon his tight cambric as they entered the pleasure gardens, with its grottoes, high and manicured shrubbery, follies, tinkling music, and glass lamps which beautified more they than illuminated; indeed, between the effect of his companion, the delightfulness of the grounds, and an advertisement for a light show promising a thrilling recapitulation of the late bombardment of Copenhagen (with real flame), Fox was rather sorry to find himself in such a hurry to leave a place where he should be very happily anonymous for an evening. “Are you ready, ma'am?” asked he, permitting himself to whisper into her loose tresses as they approached the gate.

Lady Tchuchinskaya squeezed his arm. “Yes — remember, if we are stopt, you are recently arrived here and know nothing!”

They were stopt. The sentry moved to intercept them, handling his pike very ill, which did not impress Fox, and rudely grabbing Lady Tchuchinskaya as though to toss her back across the moat, which did not best please him either. “Hallo!” cried Fox, striving for an over-friendliness he did not remotely feel, — “What’s the meaning of this, man? Cannot a gentleman walk with a lady into this town? There’s chivalry for you.” 

Excepting to eye Fox very sternly, the sentry made no reply that could be understood. But Lady Tchuchinskaya had no longer to keep silent. Here was an opportunity to finally speak her mother tongue, and she deployed it to great advantage, her whole expression confident and lively as she rebuked the man’s rudeness, cut over his demands, and finally charmed a smirk from him, with one finger in his sword belt. This and the smiles she bestowed might have turned Fox green, were he not so relieved at the easy success it produced, or intrigued by the artfulness of it, so at variance with everything he had seen of the lady heretofore. 

“Forgive me, Colonel Fox,” said she, once they were safely within the gates. 

“Of course — it was masterfully done,” he returned, replacing his coat and warring between his suspicion of her guile, and his desire to see it deployed again. 

“He made no serious complaint against your nationality, except to gripe that I should prefer anybody but my own countrymen; so I made due apologies for my poor taste, and asked if he knew where I might find more of you — ‘the harbour,’ he says!” exclaimed Lady Tchuchinskaya, with expressive satisfaction.

That Madame de Naberrie had only sought fit to exult her correspondent's outward charms, when she possessed equal quickness and cunning, amazed Fox; but he no longer wondered at the persistence of their friendship. Where in creation were two other such kindred ladies to be found? “Did he say anything else?” Fox prompted, reassured as to the continuance of some British naval presence.

“Yes,” answered Lady Tchuchinskaya, failing to conceal a smile. “He abused your laundress.”

Gottenburg was not as Fox had left it. The town’s somber, mercantile aspect was being made to suffer a surfeit of bucolic charms. Leafy boughs and garlands of egg-shells and ribbands decked the transom of every house, or stood firmly on their own in the form of May-poles; the air was bewilderingly fragrant, at one turn floral and fresh, at another redolent of smoked fish, strong cheese, and pipe smoke; the townsfolk had all turned out in their best clothes to grow merry, noisy, and punch-drunk, and in the couple's walk to the docks, they passed more than one person being fished from a canal. A wild joyousness had descended upon the place; and excepting how ravenous he was, ready to pounce upon any sacrificial offering that might be going, Fox did not much mind finding this day preternaturally extended into a midsummer dream, for it had produced a sweet gaiety in his companion: exhaustion, relief, a second-wind of good spirits, the novelty of finding herself nobody — whatever combination of causes, it rendered her (if such a thing were possible) more lovely, ready to admire and smile at everything and everybody. Even the indignity of being tugged from his arm to participate in such jovial low fun as a May-pole dance did not discompose the Lady Tchuchinskaya. Her dress was more genteel, her feet lighter than her humble sisters in their handkerchiefs and petticoats, but she galloped in the revolutions with as much cheer and pretty turning of clocked ankles as they, looking very much the faerie child Fox had chased through the weald of Örtö. 

As Fox contemplated her, he struggled against a staggering admiration which threatened to overpower him. 

With every objection had Fox guarded his mind against falling in love with his object — her royalty above his relatively common birth; her prospects against his profession and its pittance of pay; her honour and his; her character not likely to agree with his customs; the filial tyranny of her sovereign, to say nothing of the scruples of his. Against every inducement (teazing, opportunity, fictional precedent, &c.) had all this rationality at first supported him; and he had thought it more than sufficient to safeguard his heart, which had never stirred these past twenty years, except to see Aratek in a field, or to behold the miniature of a mother whose face his memory could not supply.

It was not. 

Lady Tchuchinskaya united everything that was excellent; her disposition, judgement, and taste (leaving aside her enchanting beauty), formed a character that agreed so wholly with his innermost ideas of what was good, and it was with a bottomless love Fox had not believed himself capable of five days ago, that he received her upon his arm again. 

“I have not danced so,” said she, gasping and smiling, — “since Liza Alexeievna’s wedding! When I was a flower girl and Onya pulled my curls with envy!” Even in the twilight, her complexion bloomed with the exertion, the picture of pastoral perfection. 

How was Fox to fortify himself for the cue that was to come? When the masks were finally dropt, she would remain innately queenly, and he the rude mechanical; to press his suit would only confirm him the ass. Fox struggled to remind himself that he had not been charged to cavort with the Margravine: the danger which had carried them there in such haste had not quite passed. But conscious that he was to pluck the flower from her native soil and press her into a wooden hold, and sorry himself to be leaving a place that had endeared itself more and more to him, Fox grew woebegone as they bent their tiring steps towards the harbour. 

Nearly all their monies had been left to Iggson, that he might procure the best medical man in the vicinity of Alingsas, and enable him to carry a convalescing Thire in tolerable comfort to England. The pittance in Fox’s pocket might have constituted some deposit for a sail into the Sound, but he would rather trust their last furlong to British hands, and so he walked rather aimlessly with Lady Tchuchinskaya for some time, until a few jovially sung lines of a bawdy bent his ear. A party of Implacables happened to be ashore, fetching provisions and beauties. To sit Lady Tchuchinskaya among the women they had assembled seemed an insult, but it would conveniently veil the truth and finally see them safely to the fleet. The sailors did not know Colonel Fox, and had not wanted to give over a seat to a gentleman when they might have sat another buxom beauty; but as he spoke the King’s English, convincingly damned their eyes, and carried a sword, he left them no choice; and it was besides privately agreed among them that his companion was the handsomest of their collection, and while the officer might be the first, he would probably not be the last. 

Upon these dubious determinants were they rowed out to the _Justice_ , with the officer warmly alive to the sensation of the lady pressed against his side, and the lady coyly attempting to deflect the attentions of a strumpet admiring her hair.


	6. Chapter 6

_Stockholm, 25th June._

_Dear Coburn,_

_If the messenger I send is good for anything, he will reach you before becoming distracted by midsummer revelries._

_Without recapitulating the absurd conversations which have taken place here and tended to nothing but confusion and bad tempers on both sides, it leaves me only to state that I must consider myself as under arrest; — together with Mr Gilroy, however, I have determined to sleep on this development, and let the King do likewise. Precaution dictates me write you, in the event of my being forbidden further communication, as is the fashionable penalty for anybody who crosses him. Be so good as to consult with Ministers on what course of action you think fit._

_I remain, as ever, &c.  
Piel_

_P.S. — It is understood here, tho’ I know not how, that the Markgrevine of Orto has vanished._

  
  


Admiral Coburn was not a blue-light captain, the _Justice_ not a flogging ship, nor fourteen nautical miles sufficient to preserve the crew from the midsummer fever that had infected Gottenburg. The mainmast and yards had been festooned with what greenery could be scavenged from the nearest black rocks; the decks populated with what doxies could be induced to seek coin at sea; and the fiddle of the master’s mate and the hornpipe of the cook jauntily proclaimed that the local holiday had reached the Wingo Sound. In consequence, the boat bearing Lady Tchuchinskaya was not hailed until it had fairly scratched the hull's paint; a lubber’s chair beautified by a signal flag was eventually sent down, and the purser, very much in his cups, warmly praised Colonel Fox for adding such a beauty to their company. “Wherever did you find _her_ , sir?” exclaimed he. “If you snatched her off some altar, we’ll have the bleedin' heathens to answer to come morning — but I shan’t be sorry, no sir!” Into the care of this man, Fox would rather not have handed Lady Tchuchinskaya, and he was quick to reclaim her once upon deck himself, bustling her with quiet apologies into the great cabin before she could be taken farther notice of. 

Hardly had the Marine sentry opened the door, than a lieutenant among the more sedate party gathered around Admiral Coburn barked that this was not a bordello and demanded Colonel Fox take his poppet elsewhere. A brief exchange of significant looks between Fox and the Admiral, however, prompted the company’s full dismissal, and saw the contemptuous lieutenant exit with one of the fuller bottles that were stood upon the table. 

“Mary, Joseph and the Child, I had quite given you up as gone!” cried the Admiral, before recollecting that the lady on Fox’s arm, against all outward appearances, was a marchioness, and a royal one at that, and he stood and made his obediences.

“Lady Tchuchinskaya, may I present Admiral Coburn,” said Fox, before declaring to him the Most Honourable Rigmár, Lady Tchuchinskaya, lately the Margravine of Örtö.

The Admiral repeated his bow and said, saluting her hand, “Your ladyship is most welcome aboard the _Justice_ ; and may I say what a consolation it is to have you delivered safely.” 

The lady was all gratitude, all graciousness, all relief to find that no state of war yet existed between their two nations; and after enduring many polite enquiries about her journey, to which no genuine answer could be made in her current state of tiredness and without beginning on a narrative of the whole which might surely wait till morning, she was shewn into the captain’s stern cabin below that had been made over to her exclusive use, the Admiral himself scurrying about to remove all the miscellanea that had been stored there these past weeks, such was the need to conceal her presence from even the midshipmen. One of these gangled, pimpled beings was, however, ordered to have water boiled and to clear Colonel Fox’s coach, which had been stuffed with more kegs of herring and barrels of smoked reindeer than had ever bought a Northman entry into the afterlife, and which formed the only communication to the captain’s cabin; for the larboard door had been locked, the key given to Admiral, and a report of a cursed pagan stone sent round by way of one of the more indiscreet youngsters, which was sure to keep the crew from prying and preserve the secrecy of the lady within. 

Lady Tchuchinskaya grew quiet. Fox observed this, and the ebb of those spirits she had carried — or, which had rather carried her through Gottenburg; and she seemed on the verge of collapse as he, with heightening colour and feelings, filled a large bucket with the water from many smaller ones so that she might bathe. But it was the discovery of the chest of clothes which Iggson had prepared for her arrival that overthrew her completely, and she burst into tears to handle the fresh linen and frocks. “Captain Iggson is so good!” cried she. “I do hope he returns to me, with your dear Lieutenant Thire.” 

Fox supposed that the surest consolation of this grief, aggravated as it probably was by severe exhaustion, would be to leave her in peace, that she might ready herself for bed; and, almost embarrassed to stand any longer before her, he bowed and made his exit, saying with conviction, “You may be sure he will, ma’am.”

The Admiral’s steward had been prevailed upon to boil some mutton; Colonel Fox returned to it and to Admiral Coburn with alacrity. “A day after he first expected you,” began the Admiral, looking expressively at his watch. “Still, I owe Lieutenant Thire a good piece of coin. Where is the fellow, by the by?”

At length, for he had just taken a very healthy mouthful, and knew not where to find the strength to recount those circumstances which had seen him abandon a subordinate and a friend, Fox managed to say, “I shouldn’t like to deny Thire his purse, but he didn't accompany us aboard. He and Captain Iggson remain in the country, after a cruel carriage accident necessitated our separation.” 

“That is regrettable, indeed,” said Coburn, after Fox had related only what particulars might satisfy his curiosity for the present. “However, I look forward to honouring my original terms with the man, when he is reunited with us. Yours is not the only party to be missing members. Piel remains in Stockholm, and the last letter I had from him hinted at a series of very fruitless meetings with the King.” Coburn went on to explain that no landing of troops had been countenanced, nor had Piel's officers now any view to attempt it — indeed, they had written to London seeking express permission to withdraw, for the Swedish King seemed bent upon outlandish conquest, rather than bolstering his own defences. “Upon the whole, his Swedish Majesty seems rather vexed that we would bother to come so far and _not_ wish to be sent to Russia,” concluded the Admiral. “If you can defer your return journey with the Margravine until we understand our future here, I would be much obliged. At present, I cannot spare a decent vessel.”

Though thinking this very odd in a fleet nearly two-hundred strong, any one of which would be more serviceable for a noblewoman's passage to England than their dogger had been across the Basin, Fox conceded that admirals were known to be very close with their ships, and that his solicitude for Lady Tchuchinskaya’s comfort did Coburn credit; and on the Admiral’s farther advice that there was hardly less danger of being sunk or overtaken by desperate Dutch privateers in the North Sea, often so overspread with summer fogs at this time, Fox forced himself to be almost easy at the idea of delaying; a letter from Piel was sure be forthcoming, and a day or two’s rest in a commodious, well-armed ship at calm anchor would very probably be salutary for them both. 

And when Colonel Fox passed this intelligence to Lady Tchuchinskaya through the door, and enquired whether she lacked anything that might make her materially comfortable (besides a cessation of the noisy larking above), she could answer honestly that she was very pleasantly accommodated. The cabin was spacious and as well-appointed as any genteel sitting room in Wisby or Stockholm, carpeted and curtained, with a handsome desk, breakfast table, japanned sideboard, and even a prettyish set of screens that could be of no practicable use except as a reminder of wives, sweethearts, or fair relations who awaited the officers at home; it was overgenerous for one woman, certainly, but as Rigmár had no female servant, it must be necessary that some conveniences be consigned to her, and she supposed she would not be long imposing upon the ship’s gentlemen. 

When Rigmár laid down upon her clean cot that midsummer’s night, it was to humour her memory of Onya and to honour the traditions of her childhood that she plucked seven separate flowers from her wreath and tucked them under her pillow; she was too thoroughly tired to dream of anything, let alone a future husband, who had begun to take substantial shape in her waking mind easily enough — especially when, upon idly opening a life of Linnaeus that had been left on the breakfast table, she had found her purple _sippa_ pressed between its pages. 

No greater comfort had Rigmár in some months, than the pleasure of waking on a floating fortress without fear of sudden arrest, and breakfasting in a civilized style with Colonel Fox. Only her apprehension for Jere and Thire kept her from being perfectly tranquil, and only the presence of Admiral Coburn kept her from enjoying that easy familiarity she and the Colonel had nurtured upon the road. After apologising for the delay in not despatching her immediately to England — which she had not minded at all, grateful as she was, only sorry to hear that the British might have had a largely wasted journey — the Admiral had grown reserved and set to some correspondence, leaving them occasionally only to return and write more, seeming to forget that he had a cabin of his own, nor perceiving that he was unwelcome as a chaperone and as a constant check upon their conversation. 

In these intervals of forced quiet, Rigmár's mind wandered. She now felt secure enough to consider her future in England with some degree of certainty, and she wondered at what form it must take; to the unfamiliar Queen she must go, after Padmé received her at the coast. Would she be sequestered there also, until an appropriate falsehood might be fabricated which would throw the act of escape entirely upon herself? Or would she be required to also drop the name of Tchuchinskaya, and be wholly recast? Rigmár thought she could be equal to anything, if only she were allowed the private companionship of those who knew her for herself. Of Padmé’s discretion and continued friendship, she felt totally assured; but of Jere’s constancy, when he might be forced to chuse between making his own gay way in society or altering his identity to remain at her side, Rigmár could not presume to guess; and of Onya, whose vexing but affectionate company she had seldom been without for fifteen years, she hardly allowed herself to think at all. 

This left Colonel Fox, who surprized her by beginning to form a principal part of her future hopes. If regular, unaffected intercourse with _him_ could be guaranteed, Rigmár believed she could look upon any situation in England, however interminable or isolated, with something like contentment. The uncertainty of knowing when she might be on such terms of intimacy with him again produced a strange desperation in her. When the Admiral ceased to bother himself with making that shew of consideration for their conduct and left them to themselves, Rigmár quizzed Fox about everything related to him, and offered up such details of herself, as she had not had occasion to relate to anyone in half a decade — and some things she had never expressed at all. So genuine were his looks, so deep his understanding, so upright his character, that Rigmár’s affinity for him grew rather strong, and she had to beware not to give herself wholly over to blooming feelings, which she acknowledged might also be the natural byproduct of novelty and their floating hot-house. Not but that they ever failed to maintain a decorum that could admit no speculation or give rise to gossip, had they been observed by a host of people or Princess Tchuchinskaya herself; indeed, Fox retained a formality that Rigmár wondered at, at times thinking she might beg him to leave off the titles, while also suspecting (with some secret satisfaction) that they formed some support for himself. 

Greatly, however, did the temperature and midnight sun of those latitudes speak in favour of outdoor pursuits; and it was not long before Rigmár began to pity her assiduous companion, whom she could not urge to spend more than an hour at a time above. Colonel Fox insisted on keeping her cloistered company long after he had reports to write, copies to write out, or expenses to tally; he _would_ remain with her, even if only to sit in companionable silence as she pointedly read Linnaeus’s life (for the third time), for there were no other amusements aboard, unless she set about unpicking one of the screens like an unheeded kitten. After some days had passed, unmarked by anything except the undeviating bells, whistles, thumps, and occasional bursts of saltpetre and charcoal which punctuated naval time, the cabin began to seem not so spacious at all; and apprehending some mounting resentment in Fox’s increasing reserve, Rigmár privately grew quite miserable. Not but that the Colonel was ever apologetic about a delay which could not be his own doing; Admiral Coburn had ceased to shew his face more than twice a day, and when he did, to offer her a newspaper or take refreshment, Fox's coolness towards him was marked and very often primed the Admiral's coffee for swallowing in a minute that he might excuse himself in the next.

“Do you play at cards, ma’am?” Colonel Fox asked of her one evening, once the Admiral had taken leave.

“A little,” returned Rigmár, remembering the Princess’s loathing of play — the incidental expense; the fostering of unwarrantable hope, eagerness, and impatience; the corruption of principles; the frivolous occupation of time and talents; the hardening of feelings; the inducement to low company; the likelihood of dishonesty, debt, and probably an untimely death, &c. But not truly suspecting the pastime productive of half these vices, certainly not if a gentleman such as Colonel Fox suggested it, she encouraged his attempt to divert her by adding, “But not to stakes or with any skill and only with Russian decks.” Fox quickly assured her that it did not signify, that they might just as easily enjoy themselves with plain piquet, when, recollecting that she had something that might serve for counters and make his involvement more interesting — and perhaps (though a bit heavy-handedly) invite a reappraisal of that disparity in fortune which she fancied him labouring under — Rigmár cried, “Oh! but we may play to these — ” and retrieving her muff from the chest, she fished through its lining to place various jewels and baubles upon the table. 

“It’s all I am worth in the world,” said Lady Tchuchinskaya with a weak laugh, betraying some of that melancholy Colonel Fox had lately perceived in her. He gently disagreed with this self-assessment, exerting himself to support her against that same depression of spirits he felt himself sinking under — especially when prompted to reconsider the marked solicitude she had shewn the muff, scolding himself for having thought it had sprung from any other source than its function as a repository of furtive riches. 

This realization joined to the cankerworm already eating at Fox’s heart as he dealt their hands. How rationally, how morally convinced was he that he had no right to possess Lady Tchuchinskaya — and yet! the thought of another being the recipient of those soft smiles, the object of those plaintive, affecting eyes, the beneficiary of that sweet laugh whenever she surprized herself by winning a trick, had begun to make him exceedingly wretched. Fox could not anticipate her debut at court with anything like Iggson's excitement. Some beau or toady or old fogey worth ten thousand a-year and with no wishes beyond his own to consider would take it into his head to scoop her up, never quitting her for an instant; this knave would carry her shawls, hold her fans, offer her her scent-bottles, and admire the diamonds on her bosom which some other Don Juan had gifted her, gazing in uncurbed ecstasy at her every coming and going. And these scenes would be inescapable! Lady Tchuchinskaya should be, by her connexion to the Queen, by her intimacy with Madame de Naberrie (which Fox now perversely regretted with all his soul), _everywhere_ he was, eternally before him, always giving consequence and delight to others. He should be miserable in his memory of her; he sorely felt the evil he had invited upon himself by being so absurdly unguarded in his feelings and conduct, and vowed to heaven to now act only in manner that was right and irreproachable by her or any observing party, and in somewise restore himself in his own tolerable opinion.

To this internal torment, which Fox felt it all in his own power to conquer, if only he could but conquer himself — _remember_ himself! — was added a circumstance which, though suggesting an obviation of those melancholy prognostics, proposed something that was far, _far_ worse.

On the fourth day of their being obliged to wait for some actionable news from Stockholm, or some strange nautical portent that might finally induce the Admiral to set the Margravine off, a letter from General Piel at last arrived by courier. It announced to the audience of army and naval gentlemen in the great cabin, of which Fox formed an anxious part, the termination of their feckless expedition by the bizarre arrest of their commanding officer. A lively discussion ensued as to the probable cause (Piel’s gruffness likely a factor), the Swedish King’s sanity (would not now place themselves under his orders for a coronet), whether a further emissary should be sent (here with many a sidelong glance at Fox) — until Coburn dismissed them all for a private conference with his Majesty’s man.

“Is it possible that he knows of our involvement with the — ... with Lady Tchuchinskaya?” asked Fox directly — and then, upon being handed the letter itself and reading the postscript, convinced it could be nothing else. He felt keenly for the lady beneath his boots, who must, by the rising of voices, be privy to all the anticipation of news with none of its certainty. 

“Perhaps,” answered Coburn, beginning to walk contemplatively about the cabin. “I wish Piel was not so damned terse. Take a long spoon to sup with the devil, sure, but not such a short pen to relay his schemes.” 

That General Piel had not vouchsafed an essay bothered Fox less than Coburn’s continued complacency about Lady Tchuchinskaya’s safety, and he again attempted to impress his alarm upon the Admiral. “Sir, should we not move Lady Tchuchinskaya at once? It cannot tend to any good that she remain here, when this fleet might soon move into scenes of action.”

“You think a declaration of war inevitable, then? Indeed, I should like to hear your opinion, Colonel Fox, of Sweden’s military readiness, and of the tension between republicanism and absolutism in the country, seeing as you have lately travelled through its lesser known parts.”

Fox regarded the Admiral with some bafflement. “I can make no remarks as to all that,” he finally replied, too irritated by the man’s ill-timed philosophical mood to feel any honour at being solicited on matters of strategy by a veteran of Malastare Narrows. “Except that our cool reception here hints at Sweden’s not holding our alliance in any great esteem. Forgive me, sir, but upon these developments, do you or do you not agree that Lady Tchuchinskaya is not safe here?”

“Oh, I am quite of your view, that Piel’s situation now has no insignificant bearing upon that of the Margravine,” answered Coburn.

Here was ponderous progress, thought Fox; but then, the heavy, deliberate manner in which Coburn came to sit opposite him upon the table, with that condescending air of a schoolmaster waiting for a pupil to find his own way to the point, stopt Fox utterly. A reflexive humiliation might have risen high in his frame, were Fox not immediately supported against such a feeling by another warm conviction: that there was no shame in being slower to assume ill of a man (of a fellow officer!), than for that man to bend his thoughts in a blackguardly direction. Without attempting to loom, though the temptation was strong, Fox stood himself significantly before the Admiral and merely returned his supercilious look, unwilling and unable to advert to the unspeakable possibility — 

Coburn came to it abruptly, saying with a firmness that was as chilling as Fox’s blood was hot, “I cannot promise that an exchange is out of the question.”

Fox had long since decided that he could forsake all happiness forever, for Lady Tchuchinskaya’s sake, if she were but delivered to safety, and he spoke without hesitation. “Of myself for General Piel, you must mean. As _I_ am the one who traversed the Swedish King’s trust; as _I_ am the principal actor in his humiliation.”

A sort of simpering look came over Coburn’s face, which Fox felt a great impulse to physically remove, such that he had never before felt in his life. “No,” said the Admiral, “I don’t think that would be deemed quite equitable.”

“It would if we also withheld our subsidy,” countered Fox, ignoring Coburn’s sneering tone. If a colonel were not worth a general, then perhaps a hundred thousand pounds' specie might make up the difference. 

“Oh, but the subsidy is not paid direct to the King.”

“Does it signify, to a despot who is clearly mad?” 

“There! you have acknowledged it yourself,” cried the Admiral, standing, satisfied enough with the direction of this debate to pour some conciliatory glasses of wine. “He is irrational — and this arrest of an ally all but confirms it. _You_ would not satisfy him, for all the silver in Christendom, because _you_ are not the Margravine. We cannot suffer this monarch’s erratic truculence to further imperil our Baltic trade; indeed, not a day before you returned aboard, a letter from Ministers invited the possibility that we might consider Margravine as negotiable, in the event that you succeeded and Piel did not.”

What a reverse was this! To hear that the very men who had so forcefully stressed the need for secrecy now wished to blow it from the water! It only convinced Fox that he had utterly lost the plot somewhere around midsummer. “I am sorry indeed to contradict Ministers,” said Fox, solemnly. “But to accuse his Swedish Majesty of repudiating our friendship, and then to own that we have actively ferried a fugitive — his own relation! from his sovereign dominions, could not but place us in a most dishonourable position. I can’t see that but furthering the evil we wish to avoid. If _anyone_ is to be given up to Stockholm, it must be myself.”

Fox continued in the same vein for some minutes, constantly attempting a regularity of argument and speech which did not expose his strong attachment to the Lady Tchuchinskaya and necessarily weaken his moral position; while the Admiral only nodded at intervals, before at last raising his glass most inappropriately to the health of that lady he proposed to betray with such equanimity, and saying cooly, “Well, we shall present our advices, and hope that humanity and moderation prevail.”

Fox was certain she would feel his own anger burning through the beams, as he strained for civility and reluctantly played a high card. “You cannot be insensible, sir, of what their Majesties' feelings on the matter must be.” 

“Do not suppose mine own feelings unequal to theirs,” replied Coburn, testily. “But nothing is definite; until we know what is intended for Piel, the Margravine stays here.” 

With this, Fox made the briefest of respects and left the cabin, unable to remain a moment longer in the Admiral’s presence without increasing the danger of saying something he should certainly regret. He was in the highest fever of nerves and bitter emotions, sure he would run fifty miles in any direction if somebody so much as tapped him upon the shoulder, sea or no sea.

Fox’s office was a wretched one. To pen his choleric objections to Lord Amedda, et al., meant returning to Lady Tchuchinskaya, and he despaired of his ability to conceal this development from her — indeed, to disguise it at all could only lower him further in her regard, insulting as it would be to her perception, and after the openness they had so recently enjoyed. How acutely would he be adding to her unhappiness, when she had not even her countryman Iggson to console her! She could not but despise him forever for being her gaoler and, furthermore, party to such inconstancy. It was some minutes standing outside the door to Lady Tchuchinskaya’s cabin before Fox could fortify himself to give to her despair upon despair, and to himself, shame upon shame. 

She was seated at the table, engaged in knotting a workbag out of spare hemp, and she smilingly welcomed him to sit down beside her and observe the progress of her souvenir.

“General Piel has been arrested,” Fox finally began, worrying a discarded strand. “We know not why, precisely, except for his not agreeing to certain demands — releasing British troops for petty conquest, and the like. It is ... a most unusual act among friends.” Fox tried to laugh, drily, truly feeling himself on the verge of acute emotion; Lady Tchuchinskaya only looked grave. At last he forced himself to say, “I cannot deceive you, ma’am — I _will_ not. Our delay is owing largely to a notion that you might reconcile us to the King ... that is to say, that you might be exchanged for Piel.”

The effect of this intelligence was to render Lady Tchuchinskaya dumb and downcast; she neither said a word, nor returned his anxious looks. To interrupt a silence which might be as oppressive to her for what it did _not_ contain, Fox was compelled to continue: “I do not wish you to be uneasy. As an officer, I can only reassure you that the innumerable and immovable objections to such a scheme will be communicated to London, almost immediately; and there is every likelihood that — ... that somebody else shall be sent. But as a _man,_ I — ” 

Fox stopt. He could not go on. He stood, he sat down, stood again, and fidgeted about until that speech he had felt swelling his tongue — that affectionate speech which could not but dishonour him in the circumstances — had been smothered, helped along by the lack of encouragement she gave to his affliction. Had she but burst into tears again, or stood to take his arm for reassurance, what might he have said or done! But as she did nothing to overpower Fox, except to sit so prettily in her chair and placidly regard her fine hands, he was able to speak again with some composure: “As a man, I am heartily sorry for it. Believe me when I say it is the _last_ thing that I” — here, Fox forced himself to be extremely generous, and not set himself up as possessing more moral fibre than his fellows — “or any man here would wish for.” 

At last, Lady Tchuchinskaya said, most dispassionately, “I understand you, sir,” and presently resumed her knotting. It was all the reply she made, and Fox found her calmness of manner worse than anything — as if she were not surprized by this faithlessness! She, who had hung her life around his neck! That it seemed neither here nor there to her whether she were sent to the slaughter while he destroyed himself in guilt, was the greatest check yet upon Fox’s ridiculous hopes. And hardly knowing what he said, whether he made any proper respects at all, Fox hastily snatched pen and paper, and quit her cabin in such an agitation of emotions that he had _never_ before experienced, and that he despaired of ever quieting tolerably enough to forget.


	7. Chapter 7

_‘Justice’, June 28, 1808._

_Sirs,_

_In the official communication which accompanies this letter, I have the honour to acquaint His Majesty’s Ministers with a full account of the expedition which saw the Lady Tchuchinskaya (as the Margravine Rigmár now prefers herself styled) safely aboard this vessel on the 23rd instant. Please excuse its delay; I had judged it better to await the return of the squadron’s packet rather than trust its contents to the general mail._

_I have now to add that Lieutenant Thire and Captain Iggson have since joined us, after our accident and separation on the road. The activity and industriousness of Capt Iggson in returning one of our officers, over and above his assistance in delivering the Lady Tchuchinskaya, is to be much esteemed. In whatever manner I may be allowed to advance the interests of anybody, especially a foreign gentleman, I hope it would be directed entirely in this officer’s favour._

_My satisfaction with these many happy circumstances, however, is now tempered by the possibility of them being wholly undone by an intention Admiral Coburn has lately related to me. I should like it noted that I object most strongly to any scheme which places Lady Tchuchinskaya in the position of a pawn. Nothing could be so mean and perfidious than to bring this lady out of confinement from one power and under threat of another, than to now contemplate returning her as the sacrificial lamb for the release of General Piel._

_As one who has stood in some manner as this lady’s sworn protector, I must express myself most unwilling to be disavowed by the actions of my government. Should relations turn still further south between ourselves and His Swedish Majesty, I would humbly beg that her return is not proposed in any bargain. In point of fact, I must see it categorically denied as a possibility. The very consideration of such a treacherous act galls me exceedingly, and I feel confident General Piel would himself be loath to see his freedom secured by forsaking the faith of a noblewoman, — one whom I have no hesitation in naming the first of her sex in Christendom. Furthermore, I cannot see how the admission of our having her in the first place could do anything but repudiate our claim to be Sweden’s sincerest friend, and needlessly heighten the tension between our two nations._

_We have only to pray General Piel extricates himself in as expeditious and covert a manner as we have retrieved Lady Tchuchinskaya. If any exchange does become necessary, I unequivocally expect to be sent in her stead._

_I have the humble honour to be, &c. &c._  
_C. Fox_

  
  
The reunion of the overturned party later that same evening had been marred in its felicity, somewhat perversely, by its early realization. It formed a marked contrast to their rendezvous in the shallows of Örtö: Captain Iggson had not been in raptures to see Colonel Fox or Lady Tchuchinskaya still in the Sound, and seemed almost to resent it than otherwise; Colonel Fox was mindful of his standing rather less in the role of hero than of gaoler; and it was Lieutenant Thire’s turn to be handed up and then handed swiftly down to the orlop and laid upon a bed of cables, while the surgeon and the first lieutenant debated where he might be lodged with the most consideration for his knee but at the least inconvenience to anybody. 

Only the sensations of the lady corresponded somewhat with that prior meeting, though they were felt more acutely, for reasons that could not be wondered at; she was buffeted by a wave of relief, only for her tempest of anxiety to return stronger than before, and she dreaded what unhappiness she had to give Jere. That the task _would_ fall to her, she was quickly convinced by Fox’s clearly procrastinating that evil for himself; he asked after Lieutenant Thire most minutely and expressed a desire to see him as soon as may be, almost with one boot out the door. Rigmár was reassured by it, however, upon reflecting that Jere’s initial reaction to such news was sure to be excessive, unfair, and highly provoking to Colonel Fox’s manly feelings, especially if her captain intimated (as he was given to do) that any such exchange would only occur over his grave. If she were able to soothe Jere’s temper with her own — extremely dejected, and, therefore, outwardly indifferent to all that passed before her — some harmony might be preserved and no needless scenes caused. 

After recounting the only principal facts of everything that had passed since their separation — for, they could be assured, the entire tale was worth a _much_ better table and should suffer without Lieutenant Thire’s participation — Iggson assumed the role of friendly warden to Lady Tchuchinskaya, leaving Fox be nervousness itself about what a tale of treachery she must have to relate to her captain, and releasing him to visit his own lieutenant. 

“What’s this, brother?” cried Thire, upon seeing his friend duck into sick bay whence he had been temporarily stuffed; and, recollecting himself to speak in a lower voice, “I expected you and the — well, I expected you halfway to Sheerness by now.” 

“And I expected you in the cabin; why are you kept down here, pray?”

“The surgeon objected to me being so near some piece of heathenry the Admiral has allowed upon the ship, and so far away from his physick.”

“He is a quack,” returned Fox, marvelling at the depth of superstition carried this floating society, and promising to see Thire restored to their shared quarters, if Fox had to administer the laudanum himself. 

“I want no drops, but a dancing girl would set me up nicely. Alas! My own dancing days are quite over,” said Thire, sighing. “And just when I had entertained hopes of standing opposite a certain lady from time to time, when she was not previously engaged.” 

Not for the first time, Fox ached greatly under Thire’s jesting looks. “You really must cease to think in that direction, brother,” began he, mustering himself to get before the subject, before the subject could farther run away with Thire into deeper disappointment. Fox had no easier commission in sharing the reasons for their abeyance to his friend, who had shed real blood in the endeavour; and it was all he could do to stop Thire from calling the Admiral an infernal scrub on his own ship, or even to keep him in his cot, when the lieutenant declared himself ready to toss his actual commission overboard, and damned the government for being a parcel of slippery fellows. 

“I am writing to London,” interjected Fox. “I will make my sentiments _strongly_ known.”

“Hang them,” said Thire. “What did you say to her — ... to you-know-who.” 

“Almost what I have said to you, only — ” said Fox, haltingly. “Only in not so many words.” 

With some evident frustration, Thire clarified, “Did you frankly _insist_ upon your disapprobation of this infidelity to her?”

“More or less,” said Fox, solemnly; but in the face of Thire’s mounting outrage, he continued, in a haggard whisper, “What more would you have had me do? To make a point of setting myself up in opposition to the entire senior chain of command — potentially to my government as well — would hardly work to my credit. I should be looking as though to aggrandize myself in her good opinion, when she is most vulnerable. It would appear very designing.” 

“Designing!” hissed Thire, his countenance awash with incredulity. “To honestly declare that you love her? Should you feel yourself acting more honourably to admit it when her neck is on the block?”

“Damn it, man, _I_ will be exchanged before it comes within a mile of that. Whatever my regard for her, it is entirely irrelevant to the matter at hand.”

“Can you really claim to have no intentions there?” asked Thire, still aghast. 

Here Fox spoke more candidly, though with significantly more regret. “Not any longer; and never through such artifice.” 

“How can you speak so unfeelingly! _You,_ her preserver! And how can you allow your honour to be so maligned!” said Thire, freely giving voice to every ill reflection which had risen in Fox’s head and which he had strove to silence with great effort. He sensed Thire coming upon a damning conclusion, and though he gestured for his friend to belay his protesting, Thire would say it: “Be assured, Iggson will call the Admiral out, if you do not.” 

“Don't — !” hissed Fox, shutting his eyes against an anger that swelled behind them. “Do not _tempt_ me, brother. Please — if you have any love for me, you will not suggest it again.” 

Thire quieted at this earnest rebuke, but he did not long persist in it. “You might have written to the King directly,” said he, after a heavy pause. 

“What! What Royalist stuff, you amaze me, Thire. I have acted with integrity,” said Fox, as much to convince himself as his friend, so uncomfortably at odds did he feel with his own actions in that moment. “It would go against everything I believe, against the very constitution upon which our commissions stand, to consult the monarch over his ministers.”

Thire fixed upon Fox with a look of some distaste. “Even in _this,_ you follow protocol.” 

Fox returned the glare, his very nose burning with emotion, as he declared, “It is not my decision to make, Lieutenant.” Then he stormed from the sick bay, leaving Thire to make his own way out of the company of the syphilitic and the splenetic. And in this parting, each man felt worse than when they had left each other on the road: one smarting against all the futility of fighting a stubborn, righteous superior about his boneheadedness (and the agony of a fouled knee); the other slumping under all the painful confusion of having acted right, though sure that he had lost the respect of a man who was like his brother — and, by that brother’s bald dismay, all hope of restoring the regard of a woman he truly loved. 

After the raucous success of the impromptu midsummer celebrations, Admiral Coburn had aimed to erase some portion of the disgrace he felt the _Justice_ had incurred, by inviting the Commandant’s wife — the best ally to the British in Gottenburg — to gather the town’s finest, that they might grace the quarterdeck for a ball. It also seemed the surest means of deflecting suspicion about the reasons for the fleet’s continued presence, when it was understood that relations between the two nations had cooled and that military co-operation was unlikely. And nobody would possibly suppose the Admiral to have their sovereign’s cousin confined below their feet, sitting sadly with a very grave and uncommunicative cavalryman for a companion. 

That the cavalryman _was_ in such a sulk had everything and nothing to do with her. 

Besides her not articulating any particular attachment to him, which he himself had not been able to articulate before shewing himself to be most unworthy of it (hardly criminal), _she_ had not fallen in his good opinion. Fox had simply ceased to solicit those polite attentions which, in his folly and bias towards his own wishes, he was bound to misinterpret; for, he reasoned, Lady Tchuchinskaya could no more make herself disagreeable — especially to somebody entrusted with her welfare — than he could walk back to England with his head low and his spirits lower. With many a severe pang, Fox could own that all disappointment in that quarter was of his own creation. 

Of a goodly proportion of his fellow man, however, he could not think with any such benign amity. All his darker thoughts had bent towards their general mistreatment of Lady Tchuchinskaya — and, by extension, of himself, Iggson and Thire; and over the course of the succeeding two days, he had fallen into brooding over Thire’s reproach of his callousness and Iggson’s pale stiffness towards him, which had begun the minute Fox had again shewn himself in Lady Tchuchinskaya’s cabin. “I have heard all that I need to hear, Colonel Fox,” that gentlemen had said, before excusing himself to his coach, where Fox was in some fear of finding him soused to stupefaction in brandy. And while this somewhat lessened his concern that Iggson would request to meet Admiral Coburn upon the nearest black rock for the express opportunity of putting a bullet through him, it only aggravated Fox’s temptation to do so himself. 

But to find himself in violent conflict with a superior officer upon his first deployment? Perhaps to kill him, for Fox could not trust himself to aim wide, when (as it surely would) the impression of flowered ringlets and golden eyes sprang up before him? Such a public _contretemps_ would internationally embarrass British arms, as surely as it would mortify Lady Tchuchinskaya and ruin his own career and prospects. The inducement was strong, however, and Fox’s urge to satisfy it rose and fell with the swell of the sea all afternoon. He had killed a man for much less; but as this villainy was legal, and that man’s madness was not, Fox exerted himself to be, if not tranquil, then at least tempered by the conviction that while he had so far not acted improperly, every chance still remained in this awful situation to complete his devastation by doing so. 

“Would you not like to join the company, sir?” Lady Tchuchinskaya asked him, upon the introduction of the third cotillion above. “You might enjoy yourself.” 

“You should not be left alone,” replied Fox, without looking up from his newspaper, though he should have been at a loss to say which article he was then reading, or when he had become literate in Swedish. 

“Then bring in Captain Iggson.” 

For a brief moment, Fox regarded Lady Tchuchinskaya, whose lavender gown and deftly wrapt coiffure were painfully lovely that day. Then he stood to quit the cabin. “If your ladyship wishes it.” 

“No!” cried she, leaping up in some agitation. “I don’t mean to say — ”

But she was interrupted, to the consolation of all involved in the abortive business, when General Piel opened the door. 

The three were momentarily fixed in mutual surprize — Lady Tchuchinskaya because she did not recognize this person and feared discovery; General Piel because the tiny lady was actually quite prepossessing; and Colonel Fox because, for the first time in his life, he did not know where or how or in what order to begin introductions, so flustered was he by an admixture of excitement and relief. The Admiral piled in after Piel, however, and soon set them all to rights by his own busyness. It was not the occasion for saying more than what was necessary to see Piel — who appeared to have taken a leaf from Iggson’s book and disguised himself as a peasant — back into his uniform and comfortably aboard the _Valiant_ with posset in hand and poultice upon head. He explained that the Swedish King’s mood had, indeed, worsened upon hearing that his cousin was no longer upon Örtö and reportedly fleeing to the Russians; but this news had had no bearing upon Piel’s arrest — which was simply some caprice of the King’s for believing Piel had insulted and deceived him one too many times — except to persuade the General of Colonel Fox’s ultimate success, and spurn him to hastily decamp for Gottenburg himself. 

“I _am_ sorry I could not spare a ship for your ladyship before, when everything was in such a state of suspense,” said Admiral Coburn — behaving very handsomely to her now, thought Fox bitterly. “But while the _Justice_ must very probably remain in these waters, I am pleased to announce that the army is likely to return to England within the week. You may chuse how to travel. Should you prefer a fast frigate? It would not be so comfortable, but the journey is not so long back to England, as you’ll have the wind. Or would your ladyship prefer to go in a ship-of-the-line?”

“I thank you, sir,” replied Lady Tchuchinskaya — then, with a significant glance at Fox, “However Colonel Fox chuses to return home, I will go also. I have every confidence in him, for discretion and my protection. To remain with him will add greatly to my ease.” 

What felt Fox in that moment? He hardly knew; he was doubtful of possessing the vocabulary to name everything stirring within him. But some intelligent reply had to be produced, and he merely made over his intention to return as he had come, satisfying Coburn that he should suffer no additional loss to his fleet, and releasing Piel, who quickly bowed and said, “I shall see you back on the _Valiant,_ then. Whenever is convenient.”

The door closed behind them, leaving Fox alone with Lady Tchuchinskaya and his indescribable feelings. Relief was uppermost in his mind — but it was more than relief, because it went farther than the removal of some anxiety or the thwarting of some dreadful event. No, it went much farther than that indeed, for it stretched out into a hope that he had kept close to his chest, but which now met something, however small and simple, reaching out from hers. 

Lady Tchuchinskaya had fallen back upon her chair, apparently overwhelmed herself, but the power of saying anything again eluded Fox; he knew not whether he had received sufficient encouragement to remain with her and quietly rejoice in it, or if she had merely meant to give the least inconvenience by what she had said — that she, in her goodness, had no scruple about praising his professional merits, while still privately preferring the company of somebody else. Regardless, Fox felt in great need of air before he was overcome, so unused was he to having to pick apart his finer feelings before a perceptive lady. “Lady Tchuchinskaya,” he said, by way of excusing himself to fetch her some wine with a bow and a hand upon the door. 

“Oh! — no, please!” she cried, roused to stand again and fix upon his arm, before continuing in a voice of such entreaty, “Please Colonel — ... Fox, I — I _beg_ you will call me Ria.” 

“Ria,” repeated Fox, dumbly, like an automaton. 

But more had the lady to say, and still in possession of his arm, she began haltingly, “I did not — that is, I do not mean to send you away. But I hate to keep you from a ball.” 

At this, Fox could not suppress a wry smile, though he was exerting himself to suppress a great many things in this slight confirmation of her regard; he had been deemed an indifferent dancer at school and had never since thought to apply himself to perfection in that art (perhaps now with some fresh regret). “You overestimate my addition to a set, ma’am,” he replied. 

_“Ria,”_ she corrected, a playful archness rising in her face as she took his hands and led him towards the centre of the cabin. “And I don’t think I do. Will you let me be the judge? I was raised by a dancer, you know.”

The lady would have her way. No quizzical look of Fox, no discombobulation of feature nor jackboots with spurs, nor any feeble protest that they really ought to attend their trunks, would excuse him from her solicitation for a dance. It began slowly, as Ria — _Ria!_ a name carried so delicately by a whisper — sought to catch the time of the tune then twinkling through the cabin's open windows. Her delicate arms twisted and turned in continental ways that Fox's could not answer, except by foregoing any attempt to finally gather her into them. In this, Fox’s instincts felt wholly right; and in the soft receptiveness of his partner, they were amply rewarded.

**Author's Note:**

> The proportion of fiction to fact underpinning this work actually weighs quite heavily in the latter’s favour; the principal characters are, naturally, fictitious in nature; but the minor characters and the relations of our protagonists are fictitious only in name. Örtö is an obvious stand-in for Gotland; the Russian invasion of that island in the spring of 1808 corresponds nearly perfectly with the appearance of the British naval force off Gothenburg; and the Baltic confusion into which Sir John Moore was thrust provides the perfect backdrop for the smuggling of a minor (fictitious) Swedish royal. Dates have been altered by a few weeks, but the outcomes of both military actions (non-actions, really) remain the same. 
> 
> Perhaps the most egregious fabrications, because they serve only to heighten the melodrama, were to move Visby’s towers about, particularly the Jungfrutornet, in order that its folkish tradition might better coincide with the themes of this story, and to ignore the 1679 demolition of Visborg Castle at the hands of the Danes. Visby’s county governor lived in a two-storey house in Strandgatan; but as the author upgraded the governor to a margrave (at the same time dispensing with the dukedom of that island, historically an honourary title), she also wished to retain this impressive address, in order that the hero might make a most Romantic entrance ♥
> 
> Aratek is a heavy nod to [ my headcanon about Fox's beloved Aratech 74-Z speederbike](https://countessofbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/623276893888708608/foxs-bike#notes). 
> 
> This is an expansion of the Regency Clone Wars AU begun in ["The Captain & the Resident's Daughter".](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214144/chapters/37896959)
> 
> (And heeeyey! This is the 100th Foxiyo Work!)
> 
> If you got this far and liked the story, your telling me so would mean the world :3


End file.
